


All Right Now

by BornADragonfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Beheading, Car Sex, F/M, Good old fashioned Winchester Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Crises, Impala in human form, M/M, Other, Post-Mark of Cain, Season 11 alternate timeline, Seedy motels, The Darkness - Freeform, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornADragonfly/pseuds/BornADragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the darkness recedes, Sam and Dean are trying to get back to normal. But when a close friend goes missing and a mysterious woman enters their lives, things get complicated again. Can the Winchesters save their friend without losing themselves in the process? Will Dean survive when his world turns upside down again? </p><p>Season 11 alternate timeline: immediately follows the events of the S10 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are You Ready

Dean had never been an early riser. Never. Sleep was important to him, and, if he was being honest, he liked his “beauty sleep.” He’d never admit it to anyone, though, least of all to his brother, Sam. He knew he’d never hear the end of it. Dean was well aware, though, that his good looks had gotten him far in life, and just as aware that they needed maintenance. The bonus, of course, was that his insistence on sleeping in irritated his early bird morning person brother to no end, and so, usually, he’d be more than content to lay in bed while Sam tried unsuccessfully to rouse him.

The Darkness had changed all that.

Just when he and Sam should have been celebrating the disappearance of the Mark of Cain and all its inherently violent baggage, and figuring out what the hell it meant that Death himself was…well, dead, The Darkness had reared its ugly head, if it had a head. The Darkness had engulfed everything, plunging him, Sam, the Impala, and everything around them into a dense, oppressive blanket of black. Dean couldn’t hear or feel anything, even as he screamed his throat raw calling for his brother, groped blindly into nothing. It sucked the life from him, stole every happy memory he clung to, destroyed whatever hope he had left, spiraled him further and further into a bottomless void, all alone. It was terrifying, being so isolated, stuck in a space that was simultaneously endless and claustrophobia-inducing. Neither Dean nor Sam could tell just how much The Darkness had touched, or what it meant for them and the world at large, but once it had receded, everything seemed fine. It made Dean nervous. The proverbial calm before the storm, he thought to himself. 

It was at that moment that he vowed to enjoy the light of day – every moment of it, if he could – for as long as he could. 

These days, Dean would wake up, usually just before the sun stretched its rosy tendrils of light over the horizon, and relax for a bit, watching his brother still lost in dreamland in the bed next to his. Occasionally he'd leave their cramped hotel room and make a breakfast run, or at least go pick them both up some crappy gas station coffee, relishing the quiet stillness of the early morning and the growl of the Impala as he drove down the empty streets.

Dean was finally starting to feel like himself again. He had been so lost under the spell of the Mark of Cain that he hadn’t realized how far gone he had been. Now, on the other side, it was clear to him. He had been on the path to self-destruction, and to the destruction of everyone he had ever loved, ever cared about…he couldn’t even consider it. He wouldn’t. He had been a little more “zen” of late, channeling the remnants of the Mark and its rage into calm, appreciating the little things more. Every breath, every laugh, every bite of food. He concentrated on it, the purity of purpose, the joy in it. Every moment he struggled to remember who he was, who he had been before The Mark, before he had become a demon, before Sam had saved him.

There was still a guilt that nagged at him, though. He knew that he had been awful to everyone around him. Hell, he had almost killed Cas, had been ready on more than one occasion to kill Sam. He needed time to deal with that, to make peace with it, and that time had to be his own. As much as he loved traveling the country with Sam, there was something about those lonely morning hours. He liked the calmness of the dawn. He liked the slight chill of the air that marked the transition from night to day. But most of all, he liked the reassuring feeling that could only come from an established routine: wake up, get dressed, drive, coffee, start the day, sort his thoughts into neat little boxes in his mind, to be dealt with later, once they made sense. It was oddly peaceful, the predictability of it all – something that was sorely lacking in his life lately.

No, not just lately. Always.

Dean's eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the light that filtered through the cheap motel curtains. He raised one arm above his head, then the other, and kicked his legs out straight, forcing the sleep to retreat from his muscles. Today he would go get breakfast, he decided: a hearty diner breakfast and some decent coffee. He owed himself and Sam that much, at least, after the events of the last few days.

The last case that he and Sam had worked had taken a lot out of them, both physically and emotionally. A group of vampires had been systematically picking off bar patrons in a small town in Connecticut, and by the time Sam and Dean had gotten there, more than 10 had been killed. It was strange, how easily the brothers fell back into their old habits; find a case, investigate it, solve it. Save people, hunt things. Simple, or so they had thought. 

They had met the devastated widow of one of the most recent victims, a pretty blonde woman named Lindsey, and had become quite friendly with her as they investigated the case. She had been an indispensable asset to them, introducing them to other patrons who may have seen something, while also lamenting the alcoholic tendencies that had led to her husband's demise. She had, in fact, been instrumental in their finding the head vampire, and together they had made a plan to take him out. In the end, all their careful planning was for naught, and he got hold of her before they could act. Their cover was blown, and everything went sideways, their mission to take out the nest now a rescue mission. As they were battling the head vampire and about 15 newly-turned vampires, they were shocked to see the widow among them, newly turned and hungry for their blood, her knowledge of their plan turning the battle from merely “dangerous” to nearly lethal. In the end, they had been quite thoroughly worked over by the mob, and in all the chaos, the head vamp had escaped. They were left to take out the rest, including the widow. It was a brutal fight, to say the least.

Dean grabbed yesterday’s discarded tee shirt off the floor at the foot of his bed and winced, a shooting pain reminding him of the strained muscles and bruises from last night's fight. This was the status quo, he thought to himself: always in some sort of pain. He could think of no better cure than a ride to clear his head and something soaked in bacon grease and maple syrup. 

He rolled off the creaking mattress as carefully as he could, longing for the memory foam in his bedroom back at the Men Of Letters bunker as he tried not to disturb Sam's sleeping form in the bed next to his. It was odd, Dean thought idly. Both he and Sam had been through so much in their lives, and while he struggled with horrible flashbacks and nightmares nearly nightly, Sam always seemed so peaceful when he slept, almost as if the horrors of their lives ceased to exist for a few hours. Dean surveyed the double bed, with his brother sprawled across it like a gigantic long-haired starfish, his feet dangling off the end, and saw his kid brother. Eleven, twelve at most, the innocence of youth splashed across his face. This was how he always saw Sam, he realized. No matter what happened to them, Sam would always be his baby brother, and Dean would always be there to have his back. No matter the price. He frowned at the last thought and shook his head as if to clear it. He crossed the room, pulling his jeans up to his waist as he went, and shoved his feet into his boots as he shrugged his jacket on. He snatched his keys off the dingy kitchenette table and headed for the door.

Walking outside, he saw her. Just waiting for him, like she always did, beautiful and strong, wrapped in black and silver, glistening in the glowing light of the newly-minted day. He walked up to her, one arm outstretched in greeting. "Good morning, Baby," he purred, letting his hand sweep over the gentle curves of the Impala. Dean’s face relaxed into a grin, and he thumbed the door latch open and slid behind the wheel, closing the door with a solid slam behind him. "Ready to start the day?" he asked as he slipped the key into the ignition. As if in response, the engine roared to life. Dean's smile grew. God, he loved this car. "We're taking the long way this morning." He needed the ride, wanted to put his Baby through her paces, wanted the early morning air to blow through his hair and wash the horrors of the last few days from his mind. The Impala was ready and willing to oblige him, as she always was, and he was grateful for it. He backed out of the parking space as quietly as the big block would allow, and headed for the parking lot exit with a grin. To his left, a small patch of grass housed a splintery grey park bench and an empty flag pole, the weighted string clanging loudly in the wind. A sign at the curb beyond the bench read Route 15, and indicated the direction as South. The diner he was heading to lay about a mile south of the motel. Turning northward, Dean repeated, "definitely taking the long way." He punched the gas and they were gone.

The Impala was always game for a good run. No matter how much Dean asked of her, she always gave more. She never whined or complained, always willing to go further, faster, enjoying every second just as much as Dean did. They made a good team, he thought with a grin. He had, of course, driven other cars - he had needed to, once the Leviathans decided to clone them and drive an infuriatingly accurate copy of his Baby in an attempt to get them up to number 1 on the FBI most wanted list - but none of them had even come close. He hadn't exactly minded the '77 Trans Am, but he had always felt almost like he was cheating on the Impala, and so he never truly let himself enjoy it. There was also the matter of the dog smell, but then, even Baby had smelled like a dog once, thanks to Sam…he stopped the thought before it finished developing. Sam and his dogs, he thought with mild disgust. Sam and his dogs. Trying to leave the errant thought behind him, he leaned on the gas and pushed the Impala forward, the engine purring in joy.

Ten miles later, Dean finally reached the diner, and with a small frown, parked the car in the lot. Ten miles wasn't enough, but he knew that he needed to get breakfast and get back to the motel, or else he would just spend the whole day driving around. He locked the door as he got out, casting a wistful glance back at the beautiful car as he climbed the small flight of stairs into the diner. There were about two other people in the diner, both of them probably truckers – Dean had spied two sleeper semis in the back of the lot as he drove in – and a skeleton staff of waitresses. One walked up to him, frizzy brown hair stuffed haphazardly beneath a net, a scowl on her face. Judging by the lines etched into her face, that was her default expression.

"Morning, hon," she greeted him as warmly as she could manage, "counter or booth?" 

Dean glanced toward the empty counter. A row of six red Naugahyde-upholstered stools stood at attention in front of it, and then, there! Off to the right side, a vision in chrome and glass, the dessert case. From his vantage point at the door, Dean could see at least four different kinds of pie inside, each with his name on it. His decision was made. "Counter, please." 

With a curt nod, the grumbling waitress snatched a menu from the hostess stand and walked Dean to the counter. She slapped the menu down and turned her attention back to Dean. "Mel'll be right with you," she snarled, and strode angrily away before Dean could respond.

Dean laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head. He and Sam had been all over the country, through dozens of states, and he had never before encountered a waitress who fit the stereotype of “cranky diner waitress” so perfectly. He had to remember to tell Sam. He would appreciate it. Dean had just opened the menu and begun perusing the breakfast section when a sudden voice interrupted his thoughts. 

"Coffee?"

Dean glanced quickly upwards. Standing over him, a warm smile on her face, was - he snuck a surreptitious glance at her name tag - Mel. He lifted his eyes to hers and returned her smile. 

"Yes, please," he replied. Mel lowered her eyes as she filled Dean's mug, and he took the opportunity to really get a good look at her. She wore the same starched mustard yellow shift dress and white apron as the grumpy, sturgeon-faced waitress, but somehow it didn’t make her look jaundiced as it did the other woman. Mel had also taken the time to twist her flaming red hair into a neat chignon before stowing it beneath her hair net. And, of course, the biggest difference: she was smiling. She was really quite pretty, he realized, hair net notwithstanding. Mel's eyes rose back up to Dean's, a smile still sparkling there although the one on her lips had faded somewhat.

"You know what you want, honey?" she asked, "Or you need a few more minutes?"

Dean glanced quickly back down at his menu as if to reassure himself of his choices, and smiled back up at her. "I'm ready," he replied.

"What'll it be?" she asked, poising her pen over her little notepad.

"Well, it's going to be to go," Dean started, and Mel's face fell for just a moment. He continued anyway, knowing that he needed to get back to Sam. "Let me get a short stack, the Big Boy Breakfast, a side of bacon, and two large coffees." He paused and realized suddenly that he hadn't said please. "Please."

Mel's smile returned as he said the word. "You got it, hon," she said with a warm grin. Snapping the menu closed, she turned toward the kitchen to put Dean’s order in.

 

As the double doors closed behind Mel, Dean realized he had made a horrible mistake. He rose quickly from his stool and leaned forward over the worn Formica countertop, willing his voice to follow the petite waitress into the kitchen. "And pie!" he called out, desperately. "Pie!" He realized with a frown that Mel hadn't heard him and sank back into his seat, defeated.

A sudden quiet chuckle from his right startled him. He turned and found the source, a woman sitting at the counter with him, about two stools away. When did she get there? Dean could swear that she wasn't there a minute ago. He hadn't heard her approach, hadn't seen her sit down. It spooked him that he could be caught so unawares, especially given his line of work. Maybe he was losing his edge. The thought made him shudder.

He turned apprehensively back to the mysterious woman. She was striking, he realized. Her hair hung at the nape of her neck in a low ponytail, wavy dark brown tendrils interspersed with copper winding their way over her shoulder and framing the sharp planes of her face. She wore a simple black tank top and black jeans. A black leather jacket was slung over the back of her stool, obstructing Dean's view of her backside, much to his chagrin. A large black duffel sat at her feet, and she rested a leather boot-clad foot comfortably on top of it. Her bare arms were taut with muscle, flexing easily with every small movement. He thought he might have seen a tattoo peeking out at him from her collarbone, but her hair spilled over it as she turned to regard him more closely. He took in her face more fully then, noticing the green cast of her eyes and the way they contrasted with her lightly-tanned skin. He thought to himself that he could get lost in those eyes. She smiled slightly at him, her expression friendly and teasing.

“Pie, huh?" she said then, her tone mocking but friendly. Her voice had a slight drawl to it, its pitch high and girlish, while at the same time slightly…husky. Hot.

Dean suddenly realized he had been staring. Worse, he had been gawking. He snapped his slack jaw shut, attempting to do it subtly and failing miserably, and averted his eyes awkwardly. The woman looked amused. Dean hated it. "What? I like pie," he snapped. His tone was a little more confrontational than he had intended, but she had been staring at him, too, so…

"I know," she replied, still not looking away. A strange expression flickered briefly across her features, then disappeared.

I know? Dean thought to himself. How could she 'know?'

As if reading his thoughts, the strange woman put in "Well, I mean, I noticed. I figured, I guess, is what I meant." She smiled at him again.

Dean frowned. There was something odd about this whole exchange. This woman, this gorgeous, mysterious woman - he was positive he had never met her before. A woman that looked like that, he would have remembered. And yet, she seemed somehow…familiar? He shook off the thought. It was in his head. After all, he had barely slept, and he knew that the sleep-deprived mind loved nothing more than to play tricks. They had arrived at the motel at 2am the night before, exhausted and bloodied, and here it was barely 6. Maybe he just needed a nap or something.

 

Before he could get too lost in his thoughts, Mel reemerged from the kitchen with a bag full of breakfast. 

"Here you go, hon," she said, setting the bag down on the counter in front of Dean. She cast an unnerved glance at the mysterious woman to his right. "You need coffee or anything, miss?" she asked, clearly uncomfortable.

"That would be great, thanks," the woman responded warmly, and turned her attention away from Dean to Mel. “Need my fuel, you know?”

"Right away," Mel responded with a frown, and turned toward the coffee pot.

Dean looked back at the woman for another long moment – God, those eyes – and pulled his cash out of his pocket. He unpeeled a 20 and placed it on the counter. "Thanks," he said loudly to Mel's back. She turned halfway back toward Dean, the coffee mug in her hand jittering nervously, and attempted to brighten her expression somewhat.

"Anytime, hon."

Dean retrieved the bag of food from the counter and pulled his keys from his pocket. He turned back to the mysterious woman in black, struggling to keep his expression neutral. "Uh, have a good day," he offered.

The woman stared back at him, her expression inscrutable. "You too," she said with a strange smile.

 

Shaking his head slightly, Dean strode towards the door, fingering his keys with nervous anticipation. He opened the heavy glass door and stepped outside, anxious to drive back to Sam and their fleabag motel room, and eat breakfast and drink coffee, and tell him about the cranky waitress and the pies, and to forget the odd exchange with the woman in black. He turned toward the parking space and lifted his eyes to the-- NO.

NO NO NO NO NO.

The Impala was gone. Gone.

"No no no no no NO!" Dean bellowed, and he wheeled around, sprinting up the cracked concrete steps and back into the diner. He rushed back to the counter, sputtering wildly, unable to form a coherent thought. What was the waitress's name again? That's right it was- "Mel, Mel, Mel!" he cried out to the waitress, who was currently refilling sugar dispensers behind the counter. She spun to face him, sugar flying out from the glass jar in her hand, her expression a mixture of shock and concern.

"What? What is it, hon?" she asked, rushing to the counter.

"My car. Someone stole my car!" Dean cried, suddenly unable to control the volume of his voice.

"Oh my god!" Mel exclaimed. She spun back around again, sugar still in hand, and another sweet arc formed behind her as she reached for the ancient rotary phone. She quickly untangled the cord and stretched the phone over to Dean, finally setting the sugar dispenser down on the counter as she asked, "What kind of car?"

"1967 Chevy Impala, black," Dean responded as he dialed. Mel ran toward the front of the diner, presumably to check the parking lot one more time. Any other time, Dean would have marveled at the fact that the diner’s main phone was a pink vintage princess phone, but not today. Today, he cursed the fact that he had to wait for the phone to pulse 13 times before the call would go through. Blessedly, the line started ringing and Dean glanced around the diner as he waited for someone to pick up. 

Mel darted from widow to window, her expression full of hope as she searched for the missing car. The cranky waitress eyed the scene apathetically, her scowl lines fully creased. Both truckers still sat in the dining room, seemingly unaware of the events that had elapsed. Dean's glance panned around the diner again, his thoughts racing. His thoughts drifted back to the mystery woman.

"911, what is your emergency?" Finally, finally someone picked up. But Dean did not respond. The woman. The mysterious woman in black.

She was gone.


	2. Brought Down

The Impala had never been a car.

Of course, physically, she was a car, but she was so much more than that. Throughout the past 32 years, she had been Sam and Dean’s playroom, their toy box, their hotel room. She had been a therapist, a friend, an ally. She was their last remaining link to their father, having been his before he decided to hand it down to them. She held their memories, both good and bad. Shit, she had saved the world, technically. So, yes, she was a car, with four doors, an engine, some threadbare floor mats and four wheels, but put together, she became so much more than just the sum of her parts. At times, she was Dean’s only tenuous link to reality, the only thing left to cling to when all else was lost. He loved her for that.

And now, she was gone.

Dean sat on the steps of the diner, rolling the bridge of his nose between the fingers of his right hand. His head throbbed with tension, and he pinched harder in an effort to alleviate it. It made little difference. The police were inside, getting statements from anyone that may have seen anything, but they were getting nowhere. No one, including Dean, had seen anything. Not a single thing. No one near the car, no one in the car, nothing. It was just there one minute, gone the next. Dean felt sick.

The sound of familiar footfalls roused Dean from his funk, and as he turned toward the sound, Sam entered his line of sight. Dean relaxed just a little upon catching sight of his brother, and the pain in his head subsided slightly. 

"Dude," Sam said, jogging up to stand beside Dean. "What the hell happened?"

Dean shook his head, releasing his nose. His pulse still pounded through his head, but he ignored it. "I wish I knew, man. I went in there, ordered us some breakfast—" here, he reached into the bag to retrieve Sam's pancakes, much to his brother’s delight – "and when I came out, she was gone." His face flickered with an expression caught halfway between rage and hopefulness as a thought popped into his head. Sam caught it.

"What?" Sam raised an eyebrow as he shoved a chunk of pancake in his mouth.

"Sam, there was this woman." 

Sam rolled his eyes and coughed out a laugh. Bits of half-chewed pancake sprayed his lap, and he brushed them off. Of course there was a woman. Dean attracted women like light bulbs attracted moths, and Dean was more than a little proud of that fact. 

Dean decided to ignore his brother’s obnoxious reaction as he continued loudly, "Dude! There was this woman. I was sitting at the counter, waiting for our food, and I was— well, I was alone there. And then I wasn't."

"Well, that's usually how that happens," Sam deadpanned between chews. 

"Shut up. That's not what I mean," Dean snarled. Sam could be such a wiseass sometimes. Lowering his voice, he continued, "I was sitting there, all by myself, and then she was just there. Out of nowhere, Sam. I didn't hear her walk up, I didn't see her sit down; she was just there."

Sam shrugged, taking another bite. "Maybe you just didn't notice her right away. I mean, it’s not like we don’t have a lot on our minds. You were probably just distracted. I wouldn't worry about it, Dean."

"Trust me, Sam. I would have noticed this girl." Sam cocked an eyebrow, urging Dean to continue. "She was…something." The start of a smile kicked the corner of Dean's mouth up, but it fell back into a frown as he remembered her disappearing act, its timing suspiciously close to his Baby’s. His expression grew grim. "But Sam. Here's the thing. I…recognized her."

"You recognized her," Sam repeated, his face blank.

"Not like I had seen her before. Like I knew her, somehow." Dean’s brow furrowed. It didn’t make sense. He knew that. But then, none of this made sense.

"Ok, well, that's weird," Sam admitted after a pause.

"You're telling me," Dean replied with a sigh.

"Anything else?" Sam asked. 

Dean looked thoughtful. Sam decided to let him reflect for a moment, and shoveled the last of his pancakes in his mouth and took a swig of coffee. He folded up the box from his pancakes and stuffed it into the bag, looking around for a garbage can and finding none. A random thought popped into his head, and before he could stop it, he had blurted it out.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean turned to his brother, slightly irritated to have his train of thought so unceremoniously interrupted. “Yeah.”

“Where’s your breakfast?”

Really? Dean thought. This is what you interrupted me to ask? He stared at Sam in disbelief. “I ate it.”

“You ate it,” Sam repeated flatly.

“That’s kind of what you do with your breakfast, Sam.” Dean smirked to himself. Sam wanted to be smarmy? Well, he could be smarmy, too. And he was better at it, because he’d been doing it longer. Take that, little brother, he thought to himself.

Sam rolled his eyes. He knew Dean wouldn’t let his earlier sass go without a response. “Well, I know that. What did you have?”

“The Big Boy Breakfast.” Dean thought back to the tremendous pile of food that he had devoured earlier and smiled to himself. Normally, the sheer stress of the moment would have been enough to keep him from eating. This morning, though? Dean wasn’t sure if it was his ravenous hunger or the temptation of the smells coming out of that bag, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t even sure he had chewed, he had eaten it so fast. And it was good.

Sam looked over at Dean expectantly. “Which is…?”

“Bacon. Eggs. Sausage.” Dean’s mouth was starting to water from the memory, and he swallowed hard. He hoped that Sam didn’t notice, but Sam seemed to be noticing a lot this morning. “Toast. Hash browns. A short stack.”

Sam snorted out a laugh. “So…my breakfast was part of your breakfast.” Leave it to Dean to order pretty much the entire breakfast portion of the menu. 

Dean looked almost appalled at the accusation. “No.”

“You just said—“

“I ordered you your own short stack,” he protested.

“I figured that,” Sam responded, laughing softly to himself. “I just meant, you had the same thing I had for breakfast, plus eggs, and bacon, and sausage, and toast.”

“And hash browns,” Dean murmured through a cough.

“And hash browns. Seriously, Dean?” Sam wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or disgusted. Probably both. He seemed to toe that line a lot where Dean’s eating habits were concerned.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sam decided his safest response to Dean’s breakfast was amused. He stifled a laugh as Dean grew more and more indignant.

“What?”

Sam shook his head, smiling. “I will never understand how you can eat all that and not weigh a thousand pounds, Dean.”

Dean beamed, all irritation gone, replaced with pride. “What can I say? I’m blessed.”

If Dean smiled any wider, his face would crack in half, Sam thought to himself. He almost wished for it. It had been far too long since he’d seen his brother’s cocky grin. He’d missed it.

“You’re a freak.”

Dean seemed to get caught on the word. His face flickered as thoughts raced through his head. Freak. Freak, he thought to himself. After a moment, his face cleared as a new realization set in. "The waitress seemed a little freaked out," he finally said.

"Well, yeah, I’d be freaked out by someone eating that much food, too,” Sam chuckled.

Dean shook his head, his expression serious. He was clearly ready to get back down to business. “By the woman, Sam.”

“Oh. Ok. How?” Sam readied himself for mental notes. “Like, how did she seem freaked out?”

"I don’t know, man. I don’t know how to even describe it. She just…changed once she saw her there. She was pretty cold to her."

Dean’s face was so serious that Sam couldn’t help himself. He laughed. "Dean, this, uh, mystery woman. She was, uh, pretty hot, right?"

“Sammy, come on,” Dean snapped. “I know what you’re trying to say, but it was more than that. She was nervous. Like jittery, anxious nervous, not ‘ooh, would you look at that fine specimen of man’ nervous.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh. It took every ounce of self-control he had, and his chest ached from the effort, but he managed, somehow. “’Fine specimen of man?’”

“Let me have it, Sam!” Dean barked.

"Ok, ok, if you say so.” The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched, threatening to betray him. He pulled his lips into a line and forced himself to stay serious. “So maybe we go talk to this waitress, see what she has to say.”

"Sam, that might be the smartest thing you've said all morning," Dean said, and he lifted himself off the steps and started for the door. 

***

"I'll have a slice of the cherry, please," Dean said, back at the counter. He eyed the dessert case, staring at the glistening red cherries, teasing him from beneath the golden brown latticework crust. He ignored Sam’s eye rolls. His morning had been a shit show. He had earned this pie. 

Mel spun around, startled, and Dean half expected a stream of sugar to follow. A smile stretched across the pretty waitress’ face once she saw Dean sitting at the counter. "Well, welcome back, hon," she said, slinking back over to Dean. She glanced over at Sam. Her eyes rested on him appreciatively, but she spoke to Dean. "You brought a friend."

"This is my brother, Sam," Dean said, as Mel met his eyes again. Her gaze was warm. Really warm. Dammit, Dean thought, Sam was right. "And with all the chaos, I didn’t get to introduce myself before. I'm Dean," he said with a smile, extending his hand. She grasped it tightly, and her expression grew solemn. 

"I'm sorry about your car," she said, genuine concern plain on her face. "Did the cops find anything?"

"No, no they didn't," Dean admitted, sadly. Her face fell.

"I'm sure they'll figure something out soon," she offered hopefully, grasping Dean's hand with both of hers. Sam shot his brother a knowing look. Dean glared at him until he turned away.

"So, my brother tells me that there was a woman in here at the counter with him earlier," Sam began, searching the waitress's face for any hint of knowledge. "Do you remember anything about her?" Mel's expression immediately changed. She dropped Dean's hand immediately, and shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. Her eyes stared toward the floor tiles, the ceiling tiles, the cracks in the Formica – anywhere but at Sam or Dean. She caught glimpse of a few rogue sugar crystals on the counter and wiped them away absently. She was hesitating.

Sam leaned down, gently catching her gaze in his, and smiled reassuringly. Dean could be charming as hell, he knew, but Sam had a gift for making people feel safe. Comfortable. "It's ok. Even if it sounds completely impossible, believe me, we can take it." Mel regarded him skeptically, but straightened her posture slightly as she took a step back to look at both brothers evenly.

"You'll think I'm crazy," she said softly. Her fingers drummed down the front of her apron, smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

Dean smirked. "Trust me, crazy is kind of our thing," he said to her. Her eyes darted back to Sam, who continued to smile at her, willing her to trust him.

Mel sighed. She braced herself against the counter, her arms holding her steady. "Ok. You see those doors?" She gestured with her chin toward the two stainless steel doors that led toward the kitchen. They were the typical kitchen doors you'd see in any restaurant - they swung both ways and had small windows in the top to prevent the servers and bussers from colliding while balancing full trays of food or dishes. Both brothers nodded in understanding, prompting her to continue. "Well…" she paused, her face flushing a deep crimson and a bashful smile creeping onto her face. She turned to face Dean directly. "…I was, ahem, um, watching you. Through the windows. You see, we get mostly truckers and farmers in here. Most of them are covered in dirt and too much hair and smell like they haven't showered in a year. It's not too often we get someone in here that looks like you."

Dean beamed, momentarily forgetting about his missing Impala. Sam's elbow, jabbed violently into his ribs, brought him back down to earth.

"So…I mean, I went and put your order in, and I told them extra bacon, because, you know, you were nice, and then I just kind of stood there and watched you. I know, it's totally creepy of me, but I couldn't help myself. I mean…" Mel's rambling trailed off as she took in Dean's bright smile and Sam's pained expression. She cleared her throat and continued. "Then your order was up, and one of the cooks brought me your bag, and I turned around just for a second, a second, and when I turned back she was sitting there. And not like, 'I just sat down, let me get comfortable' sitting there. Like 'I've been sitting here for twenty minutes wondering where the hell my coffee is' sitting there." She looked to Dean for validation, and got a blank stare in return. She stammered, "you…you do think I'm crazy. Yup, just crazy Mel, working at the diner, getting coffee, refilling the damn salt shakers thirty-seven times a day--"

Dean cut her off. "You're not crazy," he said plainly.

“I’m not?” Mel’s tone was either relieved or hopeful. Maybe both. Neither brother could be completely sure.

“No,” Dean said firmly. 

"…Oh." came her response.

"So how long would you say you were turned away from the window? Exactly?" Sam pressed.

"Like I said, like a second. Literally, turned around, grabbed the bag, turned back, there she was." Mel's response was confident. She knew what she had seen.

"Dean?" Sam turned to his brother, waiting for a response. Dean just sat, lost in thought, his eyes shifting as if he were reading a transcript of Mel's story. Sam turned back to Mel, giving her a small smile, and simply said, "Thank you, Mel. You were a huge help."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." She turned back to Dean, obviously concerned, and then something sparked across her face. "Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Your pie!" She immediately rushed to the case to cut an oversized slice of the lattice-crusted beauty, the filling oozing out deliciously with each motion of the knife. Dean wiped a bead of drool off the corner of his mouth as Mel placed the gargantuan slice expertly in an aluminum tin. "Enough to share," she said with a smile as she placed it before the brothers.

Dean looked up at her and grinned back, then reached in his pocket to retrieve his cash. Mel reached over and grabbed his wrist gently just as he began to ask for the bill. "It's on me," she said, and her tone invited no argument. "It's the least I can do."

"Mel, you've done more than enough," Sam said, slowly rising from his seat. "Seriously. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mel said, looking first at Sam, then Dean. Her eyes lingered on Dean’s for a long moment and with a barely perceptible sigh, she released his wrist. "Good luck."

“Thanks again, Mel,” Dean said, and he swung his jacket onto his back as Sam did the same. He dipped his head to her in gratitude and he and Sam headed for the door.

"Hey guys?" Mel's voice called out, timidly. The brothers turned to face her, incredulously. "What's going on, anyway?"

"Wish I knew," Dean replied softly.

***

Sam and Dean descended the three concrete stairs, Dean staring dejectedly at the spot where the Impala once sat. He noticed an oil spot on the pavement and wondered idly if it had come from her. But no. Of course not. His Baby didn’t leak oil. He made damn sure of that.

"What did they do with you, Baby?" he murmured to himself with a tired sigh. He was a little thrown by how lost he felt without the car. Sam looked at him with pity in his eyes, and Dean met his gaze for a second before looking away, ashamed. "I know she's just a car, Sam," he started quietly, "but she's not just a car. She's so much more than that."

"I know, Dean. I know," Sam said softly, laying a hand on Dean’s back for comfort. "We'll find her."

"I hope so," Dean said as the two brothers walked down the driveway to start the mile trek back to the motel. After several long minutes of silence, he spoke. "Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?" came Sam's hopeful reply.

 

"I'm not sharing the pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> I'm hoping to have Chapter 3 up in a few days, but I know the rewrite/edit for it is going to be a pain because it's a very dialogue-heavy chapter. I'm hoping at least by the end of the week, though. We shall see.
> 
> Let me know what you think either in the comments here or on Twitter (@BornADragonfly). I hope you're enjoying it so far! I've certainly enjoyed writing it. :)


	3. A Thing About You

The walk back to the hotel was nice, though slow. The sun climbed higher in the sky, melting the light mist that had ushered in the morning. A light breeze tickled through Sam’s hair, blowing an errant strand into his eyes, and he flicked it lightly away. Dean walked beside him, slowly – too slowly, Sam thought to himself, his legs itching for a run – looking utterly distraught as he shoveled pie into his mouth. Sam knew what he was doing. He was stress eating, like he always did. For about the millionth time in his life, he wondered wryly how Dean managed to keep in shape. 

"So what did this mystery woman look like, anyway?" Sam asked his brother, whose cheeks were currently stuffed so full of pie that Sam momentarily understood why Crowley called him “Squirrel.” Of course he couldn't wait until they got back to the motel, Sam mused. This was Dean. If there was pie, he was eating it.

Dean grunted as he attempted to finish chewing his mouthful. He didn't care about talking with his mouth full, but there was so much pie crammed in there that it would have been a small miracle if a word could squeeze its way out around it. He chewed, chewed, chewed, swallowed, and licked the remains of the cherry sauce off his lips. Sam watched his brother with amused disgust.

Dean grinned, bits of cherry and pie crust glistening between his teeth. "Imff reero goo pah," he managed, and Sam laughed. At least Dean seemed to be cheering up some.

"I'm glad it's good, Dean," he chuckled.

Dean swallowed the last of the pie and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His expression grew serious. The mysterious woman in black was still fresh in his mind, still oddly fascinating, still bizarrely familiar. He wondered if maybe Sam would know who she was, if he described her vividly enough.

"She was…striking," he attempted, and Sam gave him an odd look.

"Striking?" Sam repeated, a strangely amused expression on his face.

"Honestly, Sam, it's the best word I can think of. She was, I don't know. Thin. Tan. Muscular. She looked strong."

"Strong?" Really, was Sam just going to keep repeating Dean's words? He continued anyway.

"You should have seen her arms, man. Solid muscle."

"Like Madonna's arms," Sam offered, and Dean coughed in response.

"She did not have Madonna arms," he spat.

"Ok, ok, no Madonna arms. What else?"

"She had long dark brown hair, wavy. She was wearing it in a ponytail." Dean remembered how that hair had outlined her face, how it caressed the sharp line of her jaw. He thought about the muscles of her neck flexing and twitching as she turned to face him with that smart little smirk of hers, and felt a warm pang somewhere deep within him. Shaking his head very slightly, he pushed his fantasies away and continued. "She was wearing all black. Tank top, pants. Boots. All black. Had a leather jacket, but she wasn't wearing it." 

He thought to mention the tattoo he thought he had seen, but decided against it. After all, he hadn’t actually seen it. He wasn’t entirely sure it was even there, so close to her delicate collarbone, the mystery beneath that lovely black tank top strap…His thoughts drifted back to her face, the soft but sharp angles, the smooth skin that he would give anything to touch, just once. Those eyes, so like his own. "Green eyes."

"Green eyes?" Sam asked, smiling. "You really got a good look at her, didn’t you?"

Sam, you have no idea, Dean thought to himself. 

"You would have stared, too, if you had seen her," Dean sighed. The brothers were about half a block from the motel now, he realized. He couldn't wait to get there and eat the other half of his pie. Then again…

"Ok, so long brown hair, ponytail, all black, strong, and green eyes," Sam repeated as Dean shoveled more pie into his mouth.

"Yemf," Dean confirmed, which Sam knew meant "yes."

"Wearing all black."

"Yemf."

"…Duffel bag?"

"Yemf." Dean stopped chewing. He swallowed hastily, nearly choking on a dry piece of crust as it lodged itself in his throat, and turned to Sam. "Wait. How did you know that? I didn’t say anything about a duffel bag."

"Because I'm pretty sure that's her there on the bench," Sam said flatly.

Dean followed his gaze to the patch of green grass in front of the motel. Sure enough, perched there on the weather-beaten bench just as comfortably as could be, one foot still propped up on the black duffel bag, was the woman. Dean's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. She really was beautiful, all gentle slopes and sharp angles and chiseled features. Despite the sense of power and ferocity of her appearance, though, he got a strange sense of comfort from her. She was fierce, but soft. Protective. Loving. 

And lord help him, he had no idea how he knew that.

His momentary awe came to a sudden end as he realized that if anyone knew something about Baby's disappearance, it was her. He strode purposefully toward the woman, pie still in hand, ready for a serious confrontation. He needed answers, and he would get them. He would make sure of that.

 

Just as Dean readied himself for a fight, the mysterious woman rose, all warmth and welcome, and called out "You got your pie! I'm so glad," with a giant smile on her face. All the wind blown out of his sails, Dean stopped in his tracks and tried to collect himself again. Sam strode up next to him, looking to him with concern, then looking to the woman, then back to Dean.

"Are you following me?" Dean tried, suspiciously.

"Maybe," came her cryptic reply. She removed her boot from the duffel and bent to pick it up. She slung the strap across her chest and revealed a few black tattooed points at her clavicle, the strap of her tank top having been shifted by the bag. Dean was aware he was staring again. He attempted to harden his face, to convince this odd woman that he was angry with her, but the smile never vanished from her face. She saw right through him, and he hated it.

Sam watched the exchange anxiously. The woman obviously had some effect on Dean, of that much he was certain, but he had no idea what kind of effect or how. Even more worrying to him was the sudden realization that she was familiar to him, too, and just like Dean, he couldn't figure out why.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why are you here?"

The woman continued smiling, obviously happy to be there with them. It was beyond puzzling. 

"I'm so sorry, I’m so rude! I can't believe I never introduced myself.” Dean watched as that infuriatingly perfect smile of hers widened, and cursed as his heart sped up in response. “I'm Isabella Marie. You can call me Izzy."

"Ok, Izzy," Dean started, momentarily released from the woman's spell. His face was drawn up in a scowl, and his whole body seemed coiled to strike. He would get answers. "We have a couple of questions for you. First, where the hell did you come from this morning? Second, what do you know about my car?"

The second question seemed to throw her off. The smile vanished, and she looked blankly at Dean. "Your car?"

"Yeah. My car,” he snarled. “Black 1967 Chevy Impala. You see it? She disappeared from that diner right around the time you showed up."

Isabella stared at Dean, her expression unreadable. "I never saw her," she finally replied. "I don't know what happened to her." Her face had changed again. She appeared almost hurt. It did not go unnoticed to Dean. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with this. He wasn’t even confident that he knew what he was feeling.

Sam knew by the way his eyes darted sightlessly around his face that Dean was trying to organize his thoughts. It was up to him now. He stepped forward again. He took a deep breath and fought to keep his voice even. "Please, if you know anything…" 

"I don't," Isabella repeated sadly. "If I did, I promise, I would tell you, but--" she paused, swallowed-- "I don't."

He couldn’t explain it. Here was this stranger, this completely random woman, appearing as if by magic just as the Impala mysteriously disappeared, and then showing up unannounced at their motel. Any other time, he would have had his gun trained on her before she even had time to blink. But there was something about her that he couldn’t put a finger on. He trusted her. Trusted her. It didn’t make sense, he knew, but as he looked at her, really looked, he knew it was true. 

He shook himself out of his thoughts and realized with shock that the previously cocky, self-assured woman seemed near tears. He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to comfort her, to hold her. Was he insane? He didn't even know this woman. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel that he did. It was the strangest feeling.

"Hey. Hey, you ok?" Dean asked her, quietly, tenderly.

"Yeah, I'm ok," she answered quickly. "It's just been a really weird morning." Her eyes shifted away from the brothers, and her expression grew distant. She appeared to be reflecting on something, but of course neither Sam nor Dean knew what. She just kept getting more and more mysterious.

"Yeah, weirdness all around," Dean muttered, his anger gaining traction again as his mind replayed the events of the morning. His hands balled into fists, and he turned back to her, furious, and spat his words at her. “Really, though, tell me something: where the hell did you come from? What happened to my damn car?” He glared down at her, this tiny thing, wishing that she would just confess. Confess that she stole the car, that they had met sometime before, something. Anything. Anything would make this easier.

Just then, she turned her emerald eyes up to his, and he saw the tears pooling there, waiting to escape. His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight, and all the fire in his gut vanished. He had gone too far. He knew, then, somehow, that he had to do something. He had to. 

"Come on, come on. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—“ Dean’s attempt at soothing seemed wasted as she gasped out a sob. “Oh, shit, no. It's ok. Don't cry. Come with us. Have a drink. We'll talk."

Before he even realized what he was doing, Dean's arm was around Izzy's shoulders and he was guiding her back towards the motel room. He shot a glance and a shrug over his shoulder at an equally rattled Sam, who followed close behind them, his expression tight.

Dean let his arm drop as he reached for the door to his and Sam's room, and he prodded Izzy gently over the threshold. Sam caught up to him as he was about to enter the room and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him to face him. His face was pure concern, his eyes hard and nervous. 

"Dean," he said, his gaze boring into his brother's, "what the hell is going on?"

Dean, at a loss, stammered, trying to find the words. "I have no idea, Sammy. No idea. I just feel like she has to know something." That wasn't entirely the truth; seeing Izzy's face redden with the threat of tears was getting to him almost as much as the Impala going missing. Even if she couldn't help them find the car, she was clearly upset about something, and he had to make sure she was ok.

Sam considered this for a moment, his lips pulled into a tight line, and nodded his agreement. Together, they followed Izzy into their room. 

***

Izzy walked timidly into the room, surveying the sparse décor as she entered. Sam and Dean walked in behind her, Sam nodding reassuringly at her. He gestured for her to make herself at home.

She didn’t need to be told twice. The duffel on her shoulder seemed to weigh two tons, and she was eager to finally put it down. She sighed heavily and swung it off her shoulder, knocking something out of her waistband as she did so. It landed with a clatter on the floor as her head snapped up to two guns pointed directly at her face. Sam and Dean both glared at her, hard, as she stared back at them in terror. 

Dean cocked his Colt and took two measured steps toward her, while Sam stayed back to cover the door, Taurus raised, shifting from foot to foot nervously as he watched the confrontation. Izzy raised her hands slowly and began to back away. Dean covered the distance between them swiftly, his face contorted into a furious scowl. Whatever misplaced trust he had in this girl vanished. She had been waiting for them here, at their motel, armed. He couldn’t believe how naïve he had been. How could he had trusted her? She had played him for a fool, and he had played right along. 

"I'll ask you again," he snarled, so quiet he was almost silent. "Who the hell are you?"

"I told you," she started.

"What are you?" Sam barked from behind Dean. "Demon? Did Crowley send you?"

Izzy's expression turned from one of fear to one of indignance. "What? A demon? No!" she protested. "No. Just…let me explain."

Hands still raised, she moved slowly towards Dean's bed, gesturing with her head to indicate that she was going to sit. Sam nodded his approval, while Dean continued to stare her down, lips pursed and eyes narrow. He kicked the dropped gun across the room to Sam, never breaking eye contact with their enigmatic visitor. Sam lowered his weapon and bent to retrieve Izzy’s, then moved to one of the kitchenette chairs. Dean took the scene in and decided that since Izzy was unarmed at the moment, he could probably let his guard down slightly. He lowered the Colt and clicked the safety back on, moving slowly to sit opposite Izzy on Sam's bed.

"You hiding any other weapons on you?" Dean asked carefully. He still hadn't broken his stare.

"On me? No. Got a bunch of shit in my bag, though," she admitted, kicking it over to Sam. 

Sam took a minute to inspect the gun that his brother had kicked over to him. It was a nice piece, he thought to himself as he turned it over in his hands. A Beretta 92, not very different from his favorite Taurus, gunmetal grey, with a black pearl grip. He felt the weight of it, how solid it was, and felt a strange sense of approval. It was a nice gun, and one that he would have been proud to wield when the situation called for it. Maybe he'd pick one up some day. He knew that Dean would approve of it, too, though he preferred his own 1911.

But back to the matter at hand.

"So. Is there a particular reason you were waiting for us here with a gun in your pants?" Sam asked, rather harshly.

"I was happy to see you?" Izzy replied innocently, hoping to diffuse the tension in the room with the bad joke.

Sam's face hardened, but to Izzy’s surprise, Dean’s cold stare broke as he stifled a laugh. He would have said the same thing if someone had asked him that question. Sam's glare shifted from Izzy to Dean then, and Dean tried to steel his expression again, failing miserably.

Izzy chuckled to herself internally, amused by the brothers' such different reactions to her response.

Sam looked back to Izzy, still waiting for an answer. Not some snarky, wiseass, Dean answer, either. A real answer.

Izzy met his stare and sighed.

"The truth is, I was happy to see you," she began earnestly, waiting for Sam's features to soften a bit. They didn't. "I know you guys deal with--" she struggled to find the right words here-- "weird? Stuff? All the time. And, I needed help."

Sam shifted in his seat impatiently, clearly not satisfied with Izzy's explanation so far. Izzy looked to Dean, expecting his expression to mirror Sam's, and was surprised when it didn't. There was a softness there that she hadn't anticipated. She felt drawn to him, strangely, and she spoke her next words just to him, hoping that he would understand her somehow.

"You asked where I came from, in the diner. I honestly don't know. I was just there, all of a sudden. I can't explain it."

"Well, where were you before the diner?" Dean asked, his curiosity piqued.

Izzy paused, trying to remember. Her memory was as blank as the white walls of the hotel room. She stared at Dean, desperation in her eyes. "I don't know. I just ended up there, on that stool, like I'd been sitting there the whole time. And I was watching you. I don't even know why, but I was watching you." 

Dean remembered. 

Izzy continued. "The weirdest part, though, was that I felt like I knew you already. For years. And my watching you? It felt more like I was…guarding you. Protecting you." She looked away, unsure of what this revelation meant.

A hush fell over the room, all three considering the conversation, replaying it over and over in their heads. After what seemed like an hour, Dean spoke.

"You're familiar," he finally said, his voice guarded.

"Familiar?" Izzy repeated, unsure that she had heard correctly.

"Yeah." Dean turned to his brother, begging him mentally for a confirmation.

"I feel it, too," Sam finally said, his posture relaxing. They all seemed to be on the same page, he thought to himself. He just wasn't sure of what page that was, or of what book.

 

Book. BOOK! Sam couldn't believe the thought hadn't occurred to him before.

 

"Dean," Sam blurted suddenly. Dean spun immediately to face Sam, hearing the urgency in his voice.

"What do we know of that can appear out of thin air, and can have its memory wiped clean before it gets there?"

Dean's eyes lit up as he realized what Sam was saying. "Angels," he half-exclaimed, relieved that they might be on the right track to getting answers.

"Wait, wait," Izzy scoffed, throwing her hands up in protest. "I may not know how I ended up in that diner, but I'm positive I'm not an angel."

"Well, there's one way to find out," Dean responded, rising from the bed and crossing the small room to the table behind Sam. He picked up his cell phone and dialed as Izzy looked to Sam for answers. Before Sam could say a word, Dean had started speaking to the person at the other end.

"Cas."

"Cas?" Izzy whispered to Sam, not wanting to disrupt Dean's call.

"He's a friend," Sam replied simply, and turned his attention to Dean.

"Cas, where are you?" A pause as Cas responded. "Okay, that's not far from us. We're at the Lost Pines Motel, right outside of Lafayette. Can you meet us here?" Another pause. "Room 2." Pause. "Ok, see you soon." He hung up the phone. "He's on his way," he said to Sam, who nodded in response.

"So let me get this straight. You think I might be an amnesiac angel, and somehow this Cas will be able to tell if you're right?" Izzy snorted in derision.

"Yeah, I do," Dean spat. "If anyone would be able to tell, he would."

"Oh? And how is that, exactly?" Izzy laughed, still finding the whole idea ridiculous.

"Because he knows his kind," Sam interjected, and Dean turned to Izzy, lousy with smugness.

"You're friends with an angel." Izzy was certain she'd misunderstood.

"Castiel, Angel Of The Lord," Dean confirmed, crossing his arms.

"And…how?" she stammered. This was all a lot to take in.

"It's a long story," Sam said with a laugh. "Let's just say, we did some, uh, work for them."

"Them?"

"The angels." The statement was so casual, so normal. 

Izzy shook her head in an attempt to calm the thoughts racing through her head. "Well, that's weird. And you guys do weird."

"We definitely do," Dean almost groaned.

That reminded Sam: he had more questions for Izzy. As long as they were going to be waiting there for Cas anyway, he figured he may as well try to get some answers for them. 

"You said you knew we 'did weird,'" he started. "How? How did you even remember your name? You said you didn't remember anything before the diner."

"I didn't remember my name," she said slowly. Sam looked at her inquisitively. "I checked my ID."

"So then why not go by Isabella? Why Izzy?"

Izzy thought about that for a moment. "Isabella is just…such a mouthful. Izzy was faster. It just felt right."

Sam nodded, seemingly accepting her answer.

"But how did you know about us?" Dean asked suddenly, reminding Izzy of Sam's first question. "How did you know what we do?"

"I don't know. I just did. The same way I felt like I knew you guys, I guess."

Sam and Dean considered this for a moment, quietly, until the silence was interrupted by a low rumbling from outside.

"What's that?" Izzy asked, craning her head toward the noise.

"Cas's pimpmobile," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes.

 

Izzy rose and strode to the window to take a look. Cas's gold Continental rolled to a stop in front of the motel room door. The driver glanced around, seemingly confused, then opened the door and got out. There, just beyond the door, stood a dark-haired man in a tan trench coat and a tie. To Izzy's surprise, he, too, seemed familiar. Maybe they're right, she thought to herself. After all, they said they had worked with the angels before, and if this Cas was an angel, maybe they had all worked together at some point. Three sharp knocks, followed by a muffled "Dean?" from the outside. Izzy opened the door.

 

Castiel stood and looked at her, and Izzy could swear she saw a flicker of recognition. It quickly vanished, and he stood, flustered, looking Izzy square in the face. 

“Oh, I'm sorry. I was looking for Dean."

"We're in here, Cas," Dean called out from inside the room. Izzy opened the door and moved aside for Cas to enter. He took a few steps inside and looked towards Dean, confused.

"Dean? Where's the Impala?" he asked bluntly, and Dean's face fell.

"That's…one of the things we're trying to figure out," Sam replied slowly. Gesturing towards Izzy, he said, “She’s the other.”

It almost seemed to Izzy like Cas had forgotten she was in the room until Sam had reminded him. He had been transfixed with Dean since he entered, trying to piece together what was going on from the subtle changes in his facial expressions. Judging by his own expressions, he was doing a pretty good job. He and Dean were clearly very close, and it seemed to Izzy that Cas could easily stare at Dean all day. She got the sense that he probably already did, on some level. Perhaps he was Dean’s guardian angel, she thought. That would certainly explain his literally watching over him.

With Sam’s introduction, Cas turned his attention back to Izzy. He had a kind face, Izzy thought. She was sure that in whatever other life they had known each other, they were friends. Cas awkwardly offered his hand as his baritone voice boomed, “Hello. I’m Castiel.”

"I'm Izzy," she said simply, shaking his hand lightly. Cas still looked a little confused. He turned to Sam and Dean, waiting for one of them to fill him in on what was going on.

"It's been a weird morning," Sam started delicately. Cas stared blankly back at him. "Dean drove to a diner down the road to get us breakfast, and the Impala disappeared." He looked to Dean, hoping that his recounting of the story wouldn't upset him too much. Dean's expression was pained.

"Around the same time, Izzy ended up at the diner," he continued.

"I don’t understand," Cas said flatly, and from his expression, it was clear he didn't.

"Neither do we," Dean grumbled bitterly.

"I don't know how I got there, or where I was beforehand," Izzy interjected. "I didn't remember anything, not even my name. The only thing I knew was that Sam and Dean were good at figuring out this kind of stuff. And I'm not even sure how I knew that." Cas's face remained unchanged, but his eyes flickered back to Dean.

"She was just there, Cas," Dean put in. "She wasn't there, and then she was."

"That's usually how that sort of thing happens, Dean," Cas deadpanned, and Sam suppressed a laugh. Dean was unamused.

"I mean," he continued, "that one minute I was sitting at the counter by myself, and the next, she was sitting there. Like she'd been there the whole time."

"Curious," Cas admitted, his eyebrows knitting together in thought.

"So we were thinking," Sam continued, "that kind of sounded like it might be an angel thing. So we called you."

Cas turned to face Izzy. He moved toward her, warily, inspecting her, taking her in. After a moment, he turned back to Sam and Dean.

"There is no grace in her," he said. He almost wished there was, for Sam and Dean's sakes, but he couldn't bring himself to give them false hope. It was what it was. Something about this girl, though. Something was…off.

"But you didn't have any grace for a while," Sam offered hopefully.

"Even when an angel, or its vessel, loses its grace, a small part of that grace remains," Cas replied with difficulty. Sam swallowed thickly. He remembered when Cas had taken the last of Gadreel’s grace from him. It had not been pleasant.

"Almost like a scar,” Sam suggested.

“Yes, like a scar,” Cas agreed. With a frown, he added, “There is no such scar on her."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, Sam taking a quick frustrated breath, and Izzy dropped her gaze to the floor. If she wasn't an angel, what was she?

"I'm sorry, Sam. I wish I had an answer for you," Cas said softly.

"It's ok, Cas. Thanks."

Castiel managed a small smile in response.

"Could she be something else?" Dean tried. "A demon?" Izzy flinched at the question. "A shapeshifter? A time traveler? Anything?"

"She's just a girl, Dean," Cas said. Dean's expression was inscrutable. 

Izzy fought the urge to go to him, hold him, tell him that everything would be ok. How could she? She had no idea if everything would be ok. She didn't even know what she was.

 

Cas turned to the three perplexed figures and took a breath. "I should really be going," he began. "I'll get in touch with a few people, though, see what I can find out for you." He turned to Dean expectantly.

Dean knew that expression well. Cas had more to say, but only to him. His pulse quickened at the thought of getting more information. He didn’t know, though, what he could have to say that he couldn’t say in front of the other two. With a sigh, he stood and walked toward his friend. "I'm just going to walk Cas out," he said abruptly, and the two exited the room, shutting the door securely behind them.

***

"What's up, Cas?" The question came out like a sigh. Cas had a way of stressing over things that he didn’t need to stress over. Dean took in Cas’ tense figure and prepared himself for the onslaught of worry that he was sure was about to come pouring out of Cas. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Dean, be careful," the angel commanded, his voice deep and urgent.

Dean suppressed a snort. "Careful? What, of Izzy?" The circumstances of her arrival were…odd, certainly, but Dean was positive that she posed no threat to any of them. He could feel it, deep down in his gut. 

"There's something not right about all this, Dean," Cas insisted. "I don't know what it is, but I can sense it."

Dean still wasn’t convinced. "Your Spidey Sense tingling, Cas?" He smirked as he mentally patted himself on the back for the reference, and hoped that Cas would get it.

"I'm serious, Dean," Cas snapped. As usual, a perfectly good pop culture reference was wasted on Cas. He had to get him some damn comic books one of these days. "No good will come of this. She will cause you pain." He met Dean's gaze and held it, willing him to believe him. 

For a moment, Dean’s resolve faltered. What if Cas was right? What if he was being an idiot about all this? What if…no. Cas was overreacting.

“What? How do you know that?” Dean realized that his tone was growing angry, but he didn’t care. “You can’t know that. We can’t know that. We don’t know anything about her.”

“Exactly.” The angel nodded his head as if Dean had just proven his point.

“Cas, come on.” Dean had had just about enough. “Maybe you forgot, but once upon a time, we didn’t know anything about you, either. And yet – somehow – you expected us to trust you.”

“I know, Dean. But this is different.”

“Different how, exactly?” Dean snarled.

To that, Cas didn’t have a good answer. It was a sixth sense that was driving him to say these things; he couldn’t really articulate the logic behind them, if there even was any. He felt like there was more information there, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, but something was preventing him from accessing it. It was worrying. But Cas’ first concern was, as always, Dean. And the sense that this random girl would hurt his closest friend was just too much for him to bear. 

“I don’t know. But it is. Please, just be careful.”

"Don't you think you might be overreacting a little bit?" Dean shot another irritated look at Cas, whose concerned expression did not change.

"I certainly hope so." He really did, Dean knew. But he still thought that Cas was being a little ridiculous. But that was Cas: always worrying, always seeing a threat in everyone, except of course him. He was like Eeyore.

"Well, we'll see you, Cas," Dean said, dismissing the nervous angel and moving back toward the door.

"You will. Good bye, Dean. Remember what I said." And with that, Castiel climbed back into his Continental and backed out, fixing Dean with yet another anxious glance as he pulled out of the motel driveway.

***

Dean shook his head with a frown and opened the door, bracing himself for the chill that was sure to greet him. To his surprise, Izzy and Sam were perched opposite each other on the double beds, comparing firearms. Apparently Sam had accepted that Izzy wasn't dangerous after all, and he sat cradling Izzy's Beretta as she was inspecting his Taurus.

"They're really similar," Sam was saying as he turned the gun over in his hand. He fingered the grips, inspecting them more closely. "I actually considered the black pearl myself, but I thought the white would look better with the silver."

"It's really elegant," Izzy agreed. "I like it. Kind of monochromatic, you know?" 

Sam noticed Dean standing in the doorway just then, and hastily exchanged guns with Izzy. "Hey! What did Cas want?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh, you know. Just Cas being Cas. You having some weapon envy, Sam?" Dean asked with a grin. He was eager to change the subject, to force the conversation with Cas out of his head.

"Nah, just admiring," Sam replied, grinning himself. He placed his gun on the nightstand and rose, moving toward the kitchenette refrigerator. He turned back to Dean. "Anything we should be concerned about?"

"We're good," Dean replied cryptically, deftly catching the beer that Sam had just tossed him. He turned to Izzy, showing her the brown bottle. "You drink?"  
"I don't know," she chuckled lightly, and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 11:15. "Isn't it a little early, though?"

"It's never too early," Dean said with a grin, taking a sip of his beer.

"Eh, screw it. After this morning, I think I deserve one," she said, and took the beer that Sam offered her as he sat back down on the bed. Dean tipped his head at her with a small smile, holding his beer out to her in a toast. She returned the nod and the smile, and took a sip from her own bottle. She still wasn’t sure she had ever had a beer before, but as it rolled down her throat, cold and effervescent, she couldn’t say she disliked it. Quite the opposite, actually. She took another sip and let it run between her teeth, swished it back and forth between her cheeks. Her thoughts grew chaotic. Why the hell couldn’t she remember anything? And why did it seem like the answer was right there, just beneath the surface, and yet so far away? 

Dean walked slowly over to the bed, taking a seat beside Izzy, who was lost in thought and frowning, tapping one heel nervously against the threadbare carpet.

"Hey," he said gently, resting his hand carefully on the middle of her back. "It's ok. We'll figure this out."

Jolted out of her daze by the sudden touch, Izzy looked up at Dean. She attempted a smile, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her.

Locking eyes with Izzy, Dean couldn't help but feel that insane connection again. He felt it as sure as the blood pumping through his veins. Whoever she was, however she had come into their lives, Dean was certain of one thing: Izzy needed their help. And he and Sam would do whatever it took.

"Do you have anywhere to stay?" Sam asked then.

"No. I don't think so. I seem to be from Ohio, but we're nowhere near there. So…" Izzy's voice trailed off. Great. Another problem, another question she didn’t have an answer for. Where would she stay?

"You'll stay here. With us," Dean said firmly. Sam shot him a look.

"Well, maybe you have family around here?" Sam tried. 

Sam was no idiot; no one gets a full ride to Stanford based solely on their good looks. He knew full well that Dean wouldn't let Izzy stay anywhere but with them, but he wanted to investigate more nonetheless. It was what he did, after all. "What's your last name? Maybe we can find someone. Find something else out."

Izzy mulled this over for a second. Sam had a point. If nothing else, perhaps finding a relative nearby would bring her into familiar territory, jog a memory or something. "Pala," she replied finally. It would be a huge step towards getting answers, she realized, even if she suddenly realized that didn't really want to leave. 

"Ok. Well, that's a start," said Sam, as he rose and moved toward the kitchenette to retrieve his laptop.

Sam's newly vacated bed sat before Izzy and Dean, and suddenly both were acutely aware of their proximity to the other. Dean's hand still absent-mindedly caressed Izzy's back, and Izzy found herself leaning more and more into Dean with each second. She felt so safe there, so secure, that she simply couldn’t bring herself to separate herself from him. Dean’s arm slipped further around Izzy, drawing her closer as he continued to stroke his thumb up and down her side. Izzy nudged her head deeper into Dean’s neck, feeling the blood pulsing there, and the slight prickle of a growing beard. She traced the line of his jaw with her nose, following it from ear to chin, until she found herself staring directly into his eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that perhaps her heart stopped, just for a moment. Dean's gaze drifted slowly down to Izzy's full lips, and Izzy shifted closer to him unconsciously. It was as if they were magnets, drawn towards each other by forces beyond their control; try as they might, they could not fight it. It was nature.   
The click-clicking sound of Sam's fingers on the laptop keys was drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through Izzy's ears. As close as she was to Dean in that moment, it wasn't enough. She ached to be closer. For him to be closer.

"Nothing," came Sam's voice, and the moment was gone. The two stared at each other for a moment in disbelief – how did they get so close to each other? Neither one could remember moving – and leapt apart like guilty teenagers caught by a parent. Sam, by some odd miracle, didn't seem to notice.

"What do you mean, 'nothing?’" Dean asked, his voice suddenly huskier than usual.

Sam noticed the change in Dean's voice and finally looked up at the two, still sitting side by side on the bed, albeit maybe a bit uncomfortably. His eyes darted back and forth between Izzy and Dean, both struggling to act normal. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and looked back at the screen of his laptop. "I mean there's nothing. There's no one in the country named Isabella Pala, no Pala family anywhere near here. Not in any official records, anyway. I checked everything, even spelling variations, typos. No aliases, even. There's just nothing."

Izzy let out a breath she didn't even realize she had been holding. Whatever hope she had that they would find something out seemed to evaporate from inside her, and she slumped a bit in her seat. Dean's hand began its nervous course up and down her back again, more insistently, as if trying to rub her desperation away. Before she could stop herself, Izzy had collapsed against Dean, resting her head on his shoulder, and his arm slipped around her, holding her close, his lips resting on her head. The warmth of his breath on her hair sent a thrill through her, and for just a single, blessed second, all the fear and confusion was forgotten.

Sam watched them from the table, thinking how odd it was that they had just met this girl a few hours prior, and yet there they were, sitting with her, just as comfortable as if they had known her all their lives. Dean was certainly a great deal more comfortable, though, Sam thought wryly, as he watched Dean's fingers run up and down Izzy's finely-muscled arm. He took a sip of his beer and closed the laptop. "I guess I should probably take care of our car situation, though," he said to no one in particular.

Dean turned his head to face his brother, his chin still resting atop Izzy's head.

"There's a rental place about a mile and a half down the road, past the diner," Sam continued. "I'll head over there, and then I'll ride around and see if I can spot the Impala somewhere."

"Get something good, man," Dean said, his thumb still working at an invisible knot in Izzy’s arm. A familiar hint of sass crept into his voice. "No Ford Fiestas or any shit like that."

"I'll try," Sam said with a smirk. He turned and walked to the nightstand, collecting his wallet and his Taurus, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants as he stowed his wallet in a pocket.

"You need a gun to rent a car?" Izzy asked. She had turned to watch Sam’s preparations, but her head was still nestled into the space between Dean’s neck and collarbone.

"It goes where I go," Sam said. "You never know." Izzy shrugged. He had a point.

"I'll be back," Sam said, and headed for the door. He shot a look at Dean as he left that seemed to say behave yourself, and Dean returned it with one that plainly said just go, Sam. With a slight shake of his head, Sam left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

***

Izzy and Dean sat in silence for a few moments, savoring their closeness, Izzy almost hypnotized by Dean's fingers on her arm. Her thoughts had slowed, thankfully. Calmed, she supposed, by Dean’s hands on her, and she was finally able to process them.

"Thank you," she said suddenly. She hated to disrupt the peace, and the statement seemed so inadequate, but it was something she felt she needed to say. Better out than in.

"Hmm?" came Dean's quiet reply.

"Thank you," she repeated, "for everything. For helping me. For…making me feel safe."

Dean pushed her lightly away, holding her gently at arms’ length. His face was stern. "You don't have to thank me. It's what we do." There was more to it than that, and they both knew it, but it was still the truth.

"I just…I had to say it."

"Well, you're welcome," Dean replied, smiling softly. 

This girl. She was so odd. Just this morning, he had left this room, and he hadn’t even known she existed. Or maybe he did; that part wasn’t yet clear to him. Her familiarity to both himself and Sam was perplexing at best. But here she was, now, sitting on his bed with him, so close to him, and it felt so natural that he could scarcely believe there was ever a time when she wasn’t in his life. There was definitely a connection there. That was the one thing, in this whole confusing day, that he was absolutely sure of. He was also fairly certain that she felt the same way. He wanted nothing so much as to have her close to him, so feel her, all of her, to experience every inch of her. Any other time, with any other girl, he would have gone for it. But here, now, with Izzy? He couldn’t. This was different. She was different. He had to walk away.

He stood up from the bed and stretched, his mouth contorting into a yawn. With a groan, his muscles still screaming from the previous night, he crossed the room to pull a neat pile of clothes from the duffel he had stashed by the door. He turned back to Izzy and said, almost apologetically, "I'm going to take a shower. You ok here?" Maybe the hot water would do him some good, ease the soreness.

"Yeah," she said with a smile. She hated to let him leave her, but she had no doubt that she would be safe in the room until he returned.

"Ok. I'll be quick," he promised, and opened the bathroom door.

***

Dean walked in to the small room and placed his clothes on the wide counter by the sink. He retrieved the bathmat from the rack on the wall and laid it on the floor, then peeled his tee shirt off over his head and stepped out of his jeans. He started the shower and waited for it to reach temperature, then stepped in.

He couldn't even begin to wrap his head around the events of the morning. He remembered his initial reaction to Izzy, replaying their introduction over and over again in his head. She had seemed so cocky, he thought. It hardly seemed like she could be the same broken creature that he had just cradled so tenderly as her world fell apart around her. 

Somehow, though, he got it. His own cockiness was often a defense mechanism, and he was certain that he would have done the same had he been placed in the same situation. He had in the past, after all. His life would be on the line, and he would spout one-liners, knowing that although his sass wouldn't save him, he would have the last snarky word. It was the small comfort of that knowledge that got him through so many difficult times.

Then the Impala. He knew it was ridiculous, but that car was as much a part of him as his skin was. He had grown up with her, just as he had grown up with Sam. She was full of memories: his and Sam's first hunts together, their travels throughout the country with their father, the long, convoluted, introspective conversations with Sam that inevitably occurred whenever one of them made some new asinine decision or a new threat reared its ugly head. Hell, the little green army men in the ashtray, though seemingly innocuous, had brought Sam back from the brink and had spared the world from the damn apocalypse. She wasn't just a car. She was a member of the family, there with them through it all, always a reliable member of the team. He missed her terribly.

Dean held his head under the water and scrubbed shampoo through his hair as his thoughts drifted back to Izzy. He recalled the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, firm and smooth. The curve of her neck as it bent to fit his shoulder. The way their bodies had molded to each other's as he held her. Unconsciously, he reached back and turned off the hot water, his blood coursing hot enough through him to heat the room. He had felt an indisputable attraction to her as they had sat on that bed, an almost gravitational pull. He could sense it now, calling to him, like a siren’s song, from the other room. As familiar as Izzy felt to him, his feelings were the exact opposite. He had never felt that undeniable need to be near anyone before, not even Lisa and her son Ben, and once upon a time he had been prepared to leave his whole life behind for them. He rinsed the last of the soap from his body, turning the hot spigot back on to warm the water and get rid of the goose bumps he hadn't realized had formed, and struggled to clear his head. 

He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his head, drying his hair, before shifting it to his waist. He inspected the bruises that had blossomed beneath the skin of his bicep and flinched as he pressed his fingers to them. They went deep. It would be a while before they healed completely. Shrugging his discomfort off, he pulled his clean tee shirt over his head and reached for his boxers. He stepped into them gingerly, babying his sore hip as he did so, and followed them with his jeans. He took one last long look at himself in the mirror before turning, flipping off the bathroom light, and opening the door. He wondered to himself, as he exited the small room, what Izzy had done to keep herself occupied as he showered. As he turned the corner, he got his answer.

There, on the bed, was Izzy, laying on her side with her arms tucked beneath her head, sleeping peacefully. Dean smiled to himself, surveying her beauty again, the gentle curve of her hips, the slope of her slender neck. Her hair was splayed out on her pillow, framing her face like a shiny black halo. Her face bore no evidence of the previous hours' stress. Dean stifled another yawn and thought maybe a nap isn't such a bad idea. He walked to the bed, sitting down as gently as he could so as not to disturb Izzy's sleeping form. He bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead, sweeping the hair away from her face as he did so. After another look at her tranquil expression, he lowered himself carefully onto the mattress, shifting around gingerly until he found a comfortable position on his side. He eyes fluttered shut, and in only a moment, he too drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in publishing this one -- real life got in the way, as it is wont to do, and it just kind of got pushed to the side.  
> Special thanks to Taffy for being the world's greatest beta reader and for lighting a fire under my ass to just get this one done already.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! I'm hoping that chapter 4 will be edited and published soon.


	4. Die Hard The Hunter

The blue light that filtered through the curtains told Dean that it was dusk. The motel room was quiet, save for Izzy's even breathing to his left, and he drank in the calm like a fine whiskey before finally rolling out of the bed. Looking around, Dean noticed that Sam still hadn't returned from his errand. He hoped his brother hadn't had any issues at the car rental place, and that he brought some clues about the Impala with him when he returned. Secretly, though, he was grateful for the time alone with Izzy, and part of him suspected that the time may have been by design. Sam could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he also knew when Dean needed time "alone," and was perfectly willing to oblige him. He was grateful for that.

Izzy stirred, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and greeted him with a groggy smile as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"Hi," she croaked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Hi yourself," he responded with a grin. She's even pretty right when she wakes up, he thought to himself. His stomach rumbled loudly, prompting Izzy to stare in surprise at Dean's middle. Dean laughed. "You hungry?"

“You seem to be," she chuckled. "But yeah, I could eat."

"Well, Sam isn't back yet, so we don't have a car to go anywhere. But there were some delivery menus by the microwave. What are you in the mood for?" Dean walked over to retrieve the menus, his eyes on Izzy as he waited for her answer.

“You know, I could go for a burger," she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and sitting up. "With bacon. And cheese. And hot sauce." She paused in thought for a second. "And extra onions."

Who is this woman? Dean thought warmly. She had just ordered the perfect burger. He didn't remember ever putting hot sauce on his before, but he was positive that it would be delicious. "That? Is the perfect burger," he said with a wide grin, echoing his thoughts.

"I know what I like," she responded, a hint of slyness in her smile. Dean felt a warmth rush through him, and his hands tightened unconsciously around the menu in his hand.

"I'll call it in," he said, and fetched his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket.

Dean dialed the number from the front of the menu and held the phone to his face. Izzy felt a momentary pang of jealousy for the small plastic gadget, then pushed the ridiculous thought away. It was an object, she reminded herself. Why would she be jealous of an object?

Dean tapped the end button on the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He turned to Izzy, his face all business. "45 minutes," he said with a frown, placing his hands on his hips. "What now?"

Izzy could think of a few things. Her pulse quickened as she remembered Dean's hands on her earlier, a hot pressure building in her abdomen with the memory. She cleared her throat roughly. "Beer?" she said instead, hoping the suggestion came out as casual as she intended it. It didn’t.

"Good plan," Dean said, and grabbed two bottles from the fridge, opening Izzy's and handing it to her before twisting the top off his own. He sat down on Sam's bed to face her and took a sip from his bottle.

If he noticed Izzy behaving a little strangely, Dean didn’t acknowledge it. She was grateful, if a bit disappointed. Part of her – a large part, Izzy realized with a start – wanted to see what would happen if he had. It seemed, though, that Dean was a gentleman. He sat across from her, shooting cute smiles at her, then looking a bit uneasy and looking away.

Izzy realized with some horror that she was gaping at him.

The forty five minute wait for their burgers stretched before them like an eternity, and there was Izzy, staring like a freak at a guy who was nice enough to give her a place to sleep tonight. What the hell was her problem?

"TV?" Izzy suggested, desperate to put an end to the awkwardness.

"Uh, sure," Dean said, aiming the remote at the TV and settling against the headboard of Sam's bed. Izzy did the same, crossing her legs and propping a pillow behind her back for comfort.

What the hell is happening? Dean thought to himself. He had never been this nervous around anyone, ever. He was Dean Winchester. This just didn't happen. Dean Winchester went to seedy bars and picked up the hottest girl in the place. Dean Winchester was smooth and suave and always knew the right thing to say. Dean Winchester wouldn’t be sitting here feeling shy and gawky as a virginal teenager, wishing that his brother was there just so he wouldn’t have to talk to the girl. Yet, here he was, probably making an ass of himself. He crossed his arms and snuck a glance at Izzy. She had also crossed her arms, but uncrossed them just for a second to take a sip of her beer. She spied Dean out of the corner of her eye and chanced a glance at him. Their gazes locked as both of them remembered their closeness before. The TV murmured in the background, but the silence in the room was still oppressive. Dean opened his mouth to say something, anything, and--

"I have to use the bathroom," Izzy blurted out, and darted from the bed, making a beeline down the hall.

Well. There was that.

Dean resolved that when Izzy returned from the bathroom, he would actually start a conversation with her. But what would he say? He couldn't ask her about herself; she didn't know. He could make small talk about the weather or something, he supposed, but that would be a copout. He would think of something.

Knock, knock.

It couldn't be forty five minutes already. Dean shifted off the bed with a grunt and headed for the door. Thank God the food was here. It was rude to talk with your mouth full, so they would at least have an excuse not to talk. And when they finished, they could talk about the food. Win-win.

Dean opened the door, excited to try the seemingly perfect burger that Izzy had suggested. Where the delivery boy should have been standing, though, was a thin man with eyes so bloodshot they shone like a stoplight, his features contorted in rage. It was the head vampire from the night before. Somehow, he had found Dean. Dean stepped back, preparing himself for attack, his face hardening. Dean shuffled back into the room as the vampire advanced, frantically trying to get to the weapons cache that Sam had stashed next to the kitchenette counter before the furious monster could catch up to him. Before he had even reached the linoleum, though, the vampire sprang forward, hands outreached like talons, knocking Dean to the floor and landing a heavy blow on the side of his head before he could react. Dean flinched, but flung his arms upward in an attempt to throw the vampire off balance. The heel of his palm contacted its shoulder, and it faltered just long enough for Dean to sweep his legs under him and regain his footing. He grasped at the vampire's arm, trying to build up the momentum to swing him into the wall. The creature smashed against the wall with a crack, leaving a split in the plaster before advancing once again on Dean, its eyes blazing with rage. Dean scrambled to the weapons duffel and struggled to unzip it, hoping that he could locate his machete before the vampire could reach him.

It wasn't going to happen.

Dean was no match for the vampire's preternatural speed, and in no time, he had closed the space between them and had Dean by the neck, pinned against the wall. A predatory grin spread over the vamp's face, and he snarled "this is for Jenn," before slamming Dean's head against the wall with a sickening crunch. 

Jenn. The widow. 

Dean didn't know what to make of the statement. 

"She was supposed to be mine," the vampire continued, spitting the words, "and you took her from me." Dean shuddered at the words. Jenn had become a friend. When they encountered her, newly changed and charging them, hungry for their blood, they'd had no choice. The Jenn they had known was gone. What was left was a demonic creature wearing her face. It had been Dean who had ended her, and the reminder stung. The vampire's hands tightened around Dean's neck.

"No," he gasped as the snarling monster's hands choked the life out of him, "what you had wasn’t Jenn. Jenn was already dead."

He kicked at the vampire's legs, desperately trying to get him to shift his hands so he could catch a breath, but it was to no avail. Dean's vision started to grow spotty and dark around the edges, and he knew from far too much experience that he was about to lose consciousness.

"You don’t get it, do you? Why do you think she led you right to me?" the vampire taunted, his smile bright, shark teeth shining. "She was mine. Even before I turned her. She was always mine. She loved me."  
Dean processed this quickly as the spots started turning dark. He heard the bathroom door open, and spotted Izzy out of the corner of his eye. His heart stopped as he realized the danger he had put her in. How could he do this? Why wasn’t he more careful?

Dean knew there was nothing he could do. Despite his struggling against the vamp’s vice-like grip, he had to face facts: he was about to pass out. Where the hell is Sam? Dean wondered desperately. Where the hell is he? He heard a low rumble from somewhere to his left and chanced another glance at Izzy.

The source of the vicious sound was small and dark, in a black tank top and matching black jeans. She stood by the door to the bathroom, cold fury in her eyes, snarling in the direction of the vampire. A cruel scowl spread across her face and she cocked her head to one side, teasing the creature with every twitch of her muscles. Her hands balled up and then released, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot like a boxer about to start a match.

Izzy.

The vampire, still suspending Dean against the wall with one hand, turned and faced her, a vengeful sneer on his face. He took her in, just a girl, standing there, her blood pulsing fast through the arteries of her neck, hot and delectable. He couldn't wait to taste it, to drain her in one long gulp while this worthless hunter watched. 

"Who's this?" the vampire breathed, and Dean thrashed helplessly against his grip, struggling to get free, struggling to stop the bloodbath that was sure to ensue.

"I'm nobody," she barked, and she sprung at the vampire, a cruel smile twisting her features. Izzy's vision went white with adrenaline as she swung her fist into the arm that held Dean. The blow landed with a solid thud, and the vampire cried out in pain. It was fuel to the fire that coursed through her veins as she readied herself for her next attack.

Dean landed on the floor in a heap as the vamp's arm crumbled from Izzy's well-placed punch, and he sat for a moment, trying to catch his breath, as he watched the fight continue without him.

Izzy circled the creature, every muscle in her body at attention, coiled to strike. The vampire paced with her, smiling at her, laughing at her. It was a slow tango to the death. He stepped, she stepped. She advanced, he retreated. The vampire's demeanor changed with every step. Where before there was hubris, excitement at the prospect of playing with his food, there was now just wrath. He was sick of their dance. He was ready to finish this.

"This fight isn't with you, girl," he snarled as she advanced.

"It is now," she retorted, glancing quickly back at Dean.

The vampire caught her momentary distraction and took the opportunity to strike. Izzy, however, had anticipated the attack and rolled easily away, letting out a cold laugh as the vampire snarled in anger. She sprang back to her feet, ready for the next round. Not one to disappoint, the vamp advanced on her again, running full force in an effort to knock her back off her feet. She swept a leg to the side, catching him in the shin and sending him barreling headlong into the floor. Dazed, the vamp stumbled back towards her, teeth bared and ready to strike. He swung wildly at her face, desperate to hurt her anyway he could, eventually managing to catch her in the temple. Blood dripped down Izzy's face as she wheeled around, diving out of the way quickly and landing in a low crouch beside her duffel bag. In one swift movement, she had extracted a large machete, and she gripped it tight in her hand as she launched herself toward the vamp. 

Dean, still a tangled pile of limbs, had finally caught his breath. He rose from his spot on the floor and jumped at the vampire, eager to distract him from Izzy. Dean instantly regretted his hasty decision as he was met with a blow to the face as the vamp's arm shot out to stop him. He landed on the floor again, hard, and his injured shoulder screamed in protest as he gasped in pain. Izzy growled furiously, swinging her machete wildly at the monster, who caught her wrist and twisted her arm until she yelped in pain. He threw her down violently, then turned his attention back to Dean. The vampire smiled coldly and hurled itself toward Dean's crumpled body. Dean threw his legs up as the vamp was about to hit him and caught it right in the gut, flipping it easily over his head onto its back. Dean struggled to get up, inching his way on his elbows and knees back towards the bag of weapons, every movement a strain on his aggravated shoulder. The creature snarled and grimaced as it hit the hard floor, but immediately righted itself and leapt back at Dean, heading straight for his neck.

"Noooooooo!" Izzy screamed, bounding towards the creature as its mouth opened to reveal hundreds of tiny white teeth. She swung the machete again, her aim true. "Not him," she growled, and the vampire's head separated easily from its body as the blade sliced clean through.

It landed with a wet thud and rolled to a stop next to a speechless Dean.

Izzy stood there for a moment, motionless, surveying the carnage of the battle. Her breathing was even, if a bit heavy. Her jaw was set, her face severe. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anything so terrifyingly powerful in his life.

After a moment, Izzy bent to Dean, and the hardness vanished from her face, replaced with a softness and a kindness that made Dean want to kiss her.

"Dean," she breathed, the concern plain on her face. "Are you all right?"

Dean was still trying to process the situation, but he answered, his voice rough, "Yeah, yeah, I'm ok."

Izzy crouched next to him and gingerly threaded her arm under his battered shoulder and around his back. "Come on. Let's get you up." She helped him to his feet in one swift movement and guided him over to the bed.

Dean turned his face to hers as she sat beside her, almost as close as they had been before. Blood ran from his nose and a gash on his forehead, and he had a split lip, and he realized that she had a small scrape at her temple. He touched it gingerly, checking to see if it was still bleeding. To his relief, it wasn't.

"What was that?" a stunned Dean asked in disbelief.

Somehow, Izzy knew Dean didn’t mean the monster they had just fought. No, he meant her willingness, and surprising ability, to actually fight it in the first place. Izzy was just as baffled as Dean was, and she had no real answers as to how she’d actually done any of it, but one thing was perfectly clear to her as she sat there next to him.

"He was hurting you," Izzy replied simply, looking at his forehead in concern. It was still bleeding, though it was starting to scab over. His nose seemed to be ok. She looked down and met the emerald green of Dean's eyes. "I had to stop him."

There was a quiet moment, but it was not an uncomfortable one.

"You were…incredible," Dean murmured in awe. Izzy flashed him a small smile as a thank you.

"As long as you're ok. That's all that matters," she said, and leaned toward him slightly. 

Without thinking, Dean wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, breathing in the smell of her sweat and the blood that had dried on her skin. She smelled so earthy, so intoxicating, so…familiar? Dean still couldn’t put a finger on it, but yes, familiar. Although, he supposed, if you’ve smelled one hunter fresh out of a battle, you’ve probably smelled them all. Somehow, though, this was…different. She was different. He tightened his embrace, and felt Izzy shudder beneath his grip. For a brief, horrible second, he worried that he had hit an injury that he hadn’t noticed before, and his grip loosened as he pulled away from her. He surveyed her body, still slick with sweat and blood, her clothes clinging to her wetly, framing the masterpiece of her muscles, taut and strong. She was flawless, viciously built, a weapon on two legs. She was beautiful. Dean thought back to the way she moved, whirling and dipping between strikes, the deadly dance of a cobra, every cell of her body poised to strike. It was remarkable, the motions fluid and perfect. Dean had no doubt that if she wanted to, she could destroy him. 

He was almost tempted to let her.

Dean's breathing had grown heavy and rough. His eyes found Izzy’s lips, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like, pressing his lips to hers. He was vaguely aware that Izzy was staring at his lips, too. It was as if every drop of moisture in Dean’s mouth evaporated at once, and as his tongue darted out in a desperate attempt to moisten his lips again, he could hear Izzy huff out a shaky breath. The sound shot through him, lighting him up like a live wire, and that was it. He was done for.

Dean’s chest heaved as he angled his face ever so slightly to the right. Izzy followed suit, and their lips finally, finally met, warm and moist, sending what Dean was positive was an electric shock through them both. Dean's grip on her waist tightened further, and Izzy grasped desperately at his back, her arms pawing Dean's shoulders, trying to pull him closer, hold him tighter. Dean's other arm found purchase on Izzy's back, his fingers struggling to bring her closer to him. They both gasped for breath as their tongues met, urgent and wet. Their breathing became unison, the breath of a single person, their bodies molding to each other's as if they were meant to stay that way forever. They devoured each other, their hunger never ending, overtaking every other need, every other desire. They explored each other feverishly, both eager to learn every inch of the other's body. Their hands swept over muscle, bone, flesh. Dean was vaguely aware that they should stop, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. 

The sound of a car engine outside brought Izzy and Dean back into reality. They pulled apart gradually, breaths deep and fast. Their faces hovered close. Dean brought his hand up to Izzy's cheek and caressed it gently, tucking a loose tendril of her dark hair behind her ear. He smiled at her and kissed her one last time, sweetly. Izzy stared into his eyes, her heart full, blood hot, and mind completely blank. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his, letting out a ragged breath and smiling. 

They heard muted voices outside and reluctantly separated, each casting a wary eye to the door. Sam's voice grew clearer as he reached the door. "Thank you," he said, as he put the key in the lock and opened the door.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Thank God, he thought, It’s just Sam. He was certain that someone in the adjacent rooms would have reported the noise from the fight, and now that there was a headless vampire corpse on the floor…Dean had been spinning finely-crafted lines of bullshit since he was five, but even he knew when something was beyond his skillset.

Sam stepped in, a plastic bag in his hand, and with a truly priceless expression, took in the scene. Izzy and Dean sat a little too close together on Dean's bed, both wearing the guilty expression of the cat who ate the canary. On the floor by the wall of the kitchenette, a headless body lay motionless, dark blood leaking from its neck into the patterned carpet. The head lay on the linoleum, facing Sam, a shocked expression permanently etched onto its face. 

Sam looked from the head to Dean, his mouth agape in shock. 

"Dean! Is that…?"

"It was our new best friend from last night," Dean confirmed with a bitter snort.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Sam's voice was angry, but from his expression, it was clear that he was just concerned.

"We're ok, Sammy," Dean said. He knew Sam’s guilty anger well. He knew that he was beating himself up inside, telling himself that he should have been there, he should have helped. Dean watched as Sam’s gaze slid to Izzy and he knew that the guilt was extending to her as well. But no! Sam didn’t even know. He didn’t even know that he was probably alive now thanks to her.

"Well, thanks to Izzy." Dean beamed at her, and she looked away, blushing, embarrassed.

Sam’s eyes widened, the shock still plain on his face. "Izzy?" The doubt was plain on his face. He was going to need an explanation.

"He had me against the wall by the neck, Sam. I was three seconds from Dreamland. But Izzy…Izzy was in the bathroom when he came in, and when she came out, she saw everything. We fought. He was about to bite me. She ganked him."

Sam wasn't sure what to say. "Wow," he managed after a moment.

"It was unbelievable, Sammy," Dean breathed, reverently.

Izzy could feel the blush as it spread hot across her cheeks.

"Well, I'm glad you were here, Izzy," Sam said earnestly. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to help."  
"'S ok, Sam," she said with a small smile. “I did what needed to be done.”

Sam and Izzy sat there, regarding each other silently for a moment. A small smile played across Izzy’s face, but Sam’s expression stayed carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed the turmoil of his thoughts. It would have been funny any other day, Dean thought, but at the moment he was too concerned with Sam’s reaction to his new…friend? Paramour? Dean was struggling with the label. What was Izzy to him? Why was that important? 

"So," Dean said loudly to Sam, eager to change the subject and distract himself from his own thoughts. "How was your day?"

"Well, I think you'll approve of our rental," he started. "It's a Dodge Charger." Dean's expression brightened briefly.

"What year?" he asked excitedly.

"2008."

Dean’s expression crumpled from one of hope to one of disgust. Sam almost laughed, but managed to control himself.

"Isn't that the same plastic piece of crap you drove when you decided we needed to do our own shit, by ourselves?" Dean groaned.

"No, mine was a 2006," Sam retorted. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Hey, it's fast. I thought you could have some fun with it," Sam said, a little offended.

"Well, I do like fast," Dean admitted with a mischievous grin, inching his hand over until his fingers brushed Izzy's thigh. She leaned into the touch slightly and turned red. Sam, observant as always, noticed, and raised an eyebrow at Dean in question. Dean glared at him until he dropped it.

"What's in the bag?" Izzy asked, eyeing the sack at Sam's feet.

"Delivery guy gave it to me when he saw me coming to the door," Sam replied, reaching into it and retrieving the first box. "Probably a good thing he didn't come to the door," he added, looking over again at the corpse on the floor. He barely even noticed carnage like that anymore, he realized. He wondered what that said about him. Life of a hunter, he supposed.

"Probably," Dean agreed. "Dude, where's my burger?"

Sam handed him the first Styrofoam box, and Dean looked at it with great excitement. Sam turned to Izzy, who echoed Dean with a laugh. "Dude, where's my burger?" Sam grinned and handed the next box to her. He took the last box for himself, and opened it to reveal a crisp green salad. Izzy looked at the salad with thinly-veiled disgust and said "a salad? Really?"

"I like salads," Sam protested.  
"And I like real food," she said with a smirk. Dean, his mouth full, laughed so hard so suddenly that he almost choked on his burger. Izzy laughed and patted him on the back. "You ok, Dean?" she asked between chuckles.

Dean nodded his head, chewing as quickly as he could. "Fine," he coughed, still struggling to move past his laughter. "I think I just took too big a bite. We really worked up an appetite before, huh?"

"We did," Izzy agreed, thinking back to the vamp lying dead on the floor. And then the kiss…oh God! What if that was what he meant? 

She looked over to Dean with wide eyes and saw his widen just as his face flushed a bright shade of red. Ok, he meant the fight, too, she thought with relief.

Sam chuckled from his seat across from them, clearly realizing that more had happened between them than just the fight.

"Did you find anything out about the Impala?" Izzy asked between bites.

"Nothing concrete," Sam said, chewing a wad of lettuce. "There was another waitress at the diner this morning, an older woman. I talked to her right as she was getting off work this afternoon. She was not pleasant."

"Well, I know who you talked to, then," Dean said with a snort.

"She was helpful, though. She said that she was up at the hostess stand for most of the morning, and just before you left, she saw a man walking around the parking lot. She said he never came in, just kept glancing up at the door, and then he was just gone."

"And the car?" Dean leaned forward with interest.

"She said she thought the car was still there, but she wasn't sure."

"Hm," Dean grunted.

"It's something, Dean. It's a lead." Dean nodded and took another bite of his burger.

"Did she say anything else? A description?" Dean pressed, thinking of the vampire laying across the room. He knew that it had tracked them here; maybe it was trying to get a jump on him this morning and had decided against it.

"Not really. She said he was average height, average build, brown hair."

Well, that narrowed it down to half of the population, Dean thought bitterly. He sighed and decided to change the subject to something more pleasant. He took a huge bite of his burger and marveled as a bright vinegared heat blossomed over his taste buds.

"Good call on the burger, Iz," Dean said, swallowing the huge portion all at once. "The hot sauce really makes it."  
"I told you!" she said with a proud grin.

"This dressing is delicious," Sam offered, gesturing toward his salad. Dean and Izzy turned to him simultaneously with the same skeptical smirk.

Sam looked at them both and shook his head, sighing. They may as well have been the same person.

It was silent for a moment as the three finished their dinners, the room quiet save for the sound of chewing and the occasional finger slurp.

"We should probably think about finding another place to stay," Sam said, breaking the silence as he looked again toward the scowling disembodied head on the linoleum. 

"Probably," Izzy agreed with a nod, depositing her takeout container in the bag that Sam held out for them.

"You're coming with us, right?" Dean asked, his voice hopeful.

"If you'll have me," she replied.

"Of course," Sam said firmly. "We'll go meet up with Cas and try and figure out what to do next." He crossed the room and grabbed the weapons and his duffel, preparing to head out to the car.

Izzy turned to Dean and smiled before getting up and grabbing her own duffel off the floor, hastily stashing the bloodied machete inside before swinging it onto her back and grabbing her jacket off the kitchenette chair. Dean crossed the room and shrugged into his own jacket, grabbing his bag off the floor and following Izzy to the door. He hesitated at the threshold, watching Sam load the trunk of the Challenger. He turned to face Izzy, and, unable to help himself, planted one long kiss on her lips. Izzy focused on standing, fearing that her legs would turn to rubber if she didn’t.

"I'm glad you're coming with us," Dean said as his lips left hers, and walked out the door without another word. Izzy lingered behind for a moment, finally remembering how to breathe again. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She reached behind her and closed the door.

Dean threw all their bags in the trunk and looked to Sam, who stifled a yawn as he fiddled with the keys.

"Sam," Dean said impatiently, holding his hand out.

"What?" Sam asked, finally allowing the yawn to overtake him, his mouth contorted into an exhausted ‘O.’

"Keys."

"Dude, this was my car!" Sam protested loudly.

"Yeah, and you're tired," Dean responded shortly. "I took a nap earlier. I'm good to go." He wiggled his fingers, beckoning again for the keys.

"You also got in a fight," Sam reminded him with a scowl.

"So did Izzy!" Dean protested.

"Yeah, but she's not driving," Sam responded evenly.

"Neither are you, Sam." Dean's voice invited no debate. Sam wasn't taking no for an answer.

"Dean--" he began, before Dean cut him off with a stern "I'm driving."

“Tell you what,” Sam said with a smirk. “Shoot for it.”

Izzy’s expression must have been a horrified one, because Dean cracked up as he clarified “Rock Paper Scissors.”

"I’m going to win,” Sam said, cocky. “I always win.”

“Not tonight, little brother,” Dean snarled, a grin on his face.

The two brothers stood a step apart from each other, each eyeing the other. They were both so incredibly competitive, both so sure that they would win, that Izzy couldn’t have looked away if she had tried. With a stiff nod, both brothers made their right hands into fists, and beat them against their open left palms three times before throwing out their respective attacks. Sam’s hand remained in a fist, while Dean, his right hand flat, whooped and yelled, throwing an arm up in victory.

“The one time you don’t throw out scissors,” Sam grumbled. He grudgingly handed the keys over to a grinning, victory-dancing Dean, who pranced – really, there was no other word for it – over to the driver’s side before swinging the door open and sliding inside.

Dean’s smile smug smile disappeared instantly the second he got into the Charger. This car. It was nice, he supposed, but it wasn't the Impala. It could never be the Impala. He gazed wistfully out the windshield, thinking of his Baby, before banishing the depressing thoughts from his head. He turned the key in the ignition and was pleasantly surprised by the purr of the engine, though he couldn't help but compare. Nope. It just wasn’t the same.

“You know, if you don’t want to drive it…” Sam started hopefully, but Dean shot him a glare.

“I won fair and square, Sam,” Dean said sternly. “Shotgun, bitch.”

A few minutes later, with the hunter cleanup crew called, Sam sulking in the passenger seat and Izzy sprawled out across the back seat, Dean backed the uncomfortably new Charger out of its parking spot and headed out on the road. As he merged onto the expressway, he realized that Sam's breathing had grown deep and even, and he didn't need to look to confirm that he was fast asleep. Not tired, Dean mused, Right. That's why he fell asleep the second we hit the highway. He was again grateful to have won the right to drive. Regardless of whether or not he liked this newfangled piece of crap, he didn't want it wrecked with them inside it. He and Sam had been there once, and…that was yet another memory he didn't want to explore. He pushed it back down inside him with the other unpleasant ones and focused on the road. The lines going by became a blur. He and Sam had driven all around the country, and every road seemed to look the same; Kansas, New Jersey, Massachusetts, North Dakota -- it didn't matter. It was all blacktop and dashed lines, all a means to an end. Strangely, he enjoyed it. The uniformity, the reliability of those lines, their repetition, all blowing by the same, no matter their location. He took a deep breath and smiled, reveling in it. An hour passed, and then two, and before he knew it, they were in another state, another time zone. Just him, Sam, and this strange and fascinating girl Izzy, on the open road, leaving the drama and pain of the past few days in the dust behind them. Just the three of them, rolling along in the Charger, which, Dean realized with shock, he was actually starting to like.

Dean decided to test the Charger's responsiveness, and he pressed down hard on the gas as he passed another road sign welcoming him and his passengers to another dusty nothing town. The engine responded easily, launching them forward with a low growl. It wasn't the Impala, Dean thought again. It would never be. But it was enough. Actually, it was more than enough. As much as he had been aching for his Baby, for the feel of the vinyl seats and the rattling of the Legos in the air vents, he felt oddly at peace in that moment. The void that had been consuming him that morning seemed all but gone. And besides, he was rather enjoying the weird conspiracy theory show that was currently playing on the satellite radio.

As they rolled past what was easily the 35th “Welcome to…” town border sign of the night, Dean took a second to glance over at Sam, sleeping like a baby in the passenger seat, and back at Izzy, passed out across the back seat, and suddenly, he felt strangely close to okay. 

Everything was going to be okay.


	5. Hot Blooded

Izzy yawned and stretched with a groan. It seemed too early to be awake, but there was the sun, streaming through the blinds in bright stripes. It could be worse. She shifted to her left and saw Dean's still-sleepy eyes smiling back at her, the crinkles at their corners sending a warm pang into her gut. Yeah, it could be much, much worse.

"Morning," she croaked as she stretched again with a grin.

"Morning," Dean replied, his eyes sparkling as his lips curved into a smile. He threw an arm over Izzy's waist and pulled her close, planting a light kiss first on her forehead, and then gently on her lips.

Izzy wiggled closer to him, wrapping her own arms around Dean as she bent her neck to his bare chest. He was so warm, she thought to herself. He was like her own personal space heater in the chilly morning hours, and she wrapped herself in him like a security blanket. Dean nestled his head into her hair and kissed her again. Neither one of them wanted to move, but a nagging rumble from Dean's stomach interrupted the moment and they both laughed silently. 

"Hungry again, Dean?" Izzy teased. She ran her fingers up and down his abdomen in question, giggling when they caused him to squirm.

"Always," Dean replied, and kissed her hard on the mouth. The tickling stopped abruptly, and Dean smirked in victory before rolling out of bed. 

"Cheater," Izzy pouted overdramatically, before following. She pulled on her jeans as Dean did the same, and chuckled to herself when a sudden loud snore issued from Sam's bed. 

This was the new normal for her. To be fair, she still wasn't sure what the old normal was, but she wasn't sure she wanted to. Everything in her life now seemed so perfect, like it was tailor-made to her. She had fought demons, witches, monsters, and the odd deity with Dean and Sam every day for the past month – had it really been a month already? – and it had seemed to her almost like she was designed for it. Her movements were fluid and smooth, the result of years of practice that she couldn't remember. Her blows in battle were swift and devastating. Her shooting was deadly accurate. She was a hunter. That much was clear almost immediately.

She had almost considered herself lucky after that first encounter the night she met the Winchesters, but after numerous sparring matches with both Sam and Dean, it was clear that it was more than just luck. It was skill. It was in her blood, and there was no denying it. There was a certain satisfaction in that, the realization of a calling. However, while Sam and Dean fought to protect humanity, she fought to protect them. That purpose hadn’t been realized until later, but looking back now she wondered how there had ever been a question; it wound through every fiber of muscle, every cell in her body humming in single-minded determination as she beat their enemies back, away from her boys. Her boys. She wasn't sure when they had become that, although with Dean she figured it was pretty much immediately, but there it was. They were hers, and she was theirs.

The day they met, all three hunters had acknowledged a certain inexplicable connection to each other. Over the past four weeks, that connection had only deepened, particularly with Dean. Since that first night, she and Dean had been nearly inseparable. They started every day together, going for drives, talking -- or not talking, when they decided to use their lips in other ways -- getting breakfast, heading back to whatever dingy motel or abandoned building they were calling home that week, and waking Sam up to start the day.

They had made a pit stop at Bobby's place one morning when they were in South Dakota, searched the charred wreckage of the junk yard, and had happened upon an old 1966 Nova. It was in decent shape, despite some rust blooming under the dull blue paint, and by some miracle, there was still some gas in the tank. Dean had grunted his approval, and they had turned the Charger back in at the rental place, Dean smiling victoriously as they did so. As they drove away from the rental place in the Nova, engine roaring as Dean fiddled with the radio, trying to remember his old favorite classic rock station, Izzy had felt strangely at peace. This, she thought, is the perfect moment. Me, Dean, this morning, this car, driving down the road…perfect. They took a longer ride that morning than usual, looping through the empty roads, Dean smiling with glee as Boston blasted out of the 40-year-old speakers. Izzy sang along, surprised to find that she knew the words. She and Dean exchanged grins as he pushed the Nova a little bit harder, the engine purring happily, and pulled through a drive through to collect breakfast before heading back to Sam. The look on Sam's face when he saw the worn Nova outside the motel door was priceless. It was clear that he had enjoyed the Charger while they had it, but he knew from day one that they couldn't keep renting it forever. Still, he was sad to see it go.

Izzy pulled a flannel shirt out of her bag as she reminisced, buttoning it slowly as Dean came up behind her and enveloped her in his arms. "What's for breakfast today, Iz?" he asked, kissing her neck through her hair and reaching around to help her button her shirt.  
"Burritos?" she asked, craning her neck back in an attempt to get her lips closer to Dean's. It worked, and he kissed her delicately.

"Sounds good to me," Dean agreed happily, releasing her. 

“Everything sounds good to you first thing in the morning. You’d eat a pile of garbage if it would shut your stomach up,” Izzy said with a laugh.

Dean feigned deep thought for a moment before nodding in agreement, resulting in another musical laugh from Izzy.

"Probably," he allowed, placing an arm on the small of her back and shoving her playfully towards the door. She turned back in mock outrage, prompting a chuckle from Dean this time. He grabbed his jacket and tossed Izzy hers, and they were out the door.

Dean tossed the keys to a smiling Izzy, who skipped happily to the driver's door. Dean smiled to himself. He loved that she seemed to love driving as much as he did. Izzy hopped in, adjusting the seat as Dean planted himself in the passenger seat, and turned to adjust the rear-view mirror when something -- someone -- caught her eye. A startled gasp escaped her lips and Dean turned to look behind them in alarm.

His eyebrows raised in question as he identified the figure behind the car.

"Cas?" Dean opened the door with a creak and started toward his friend, perplexed. He would admit that it wasn't unusual for Castiel to just show up out of nowhere, but this sudden appearance seemed somehow different. Especially, coming as it was, a month since he they had last spoken. Cas' face was tired, worn, eyes heavy with concern as Dean strode up to him. "Cas? Where have you been, man? What's going on?"

"Dean," Cas began solemnly. "We need to talk."

"I figured," Dean said with an eye roll. A month, a month, had elapsed, and he’d heard nothing from him. Not a word. Not a single letter. Nothing. And now, here he was, interrupting his morning ride to, what? Stress more about Izzy? "About what?"

"I see Izzy is still with you." Cas had a knack for stating the obvious.

"Yeah, she is," Dean responded impatiently. He knew it. He fucking knew it. Cas could be a broken record sometimes.

"Dean, I don't think this is a good idea,” Cas continued. Dean couldn't help but think that Cas' tone was bordering on that of a parent scolding a disobedient child.

"Yeah, I know you don't. But you know what, Cas? I don't care. She's good for me--" he caught himself as he said it and winced inwardly -- "us. She's good for us." He prayed that Cas hadn’t caught his slip up, but he knew he had. Of course he had.

The angel’s face grew soft. Was that…was that pity Dean saw there?   
"She isn’t, Dean. She will bring you pain. I urge you not to get attached." Cas' voice was almost pleading now, but Dean was having none of it.

"Too late, man," Dean responded quietly, casting a glance back at the Nova, catching Izzy's concerned stare through the back window. He turned back to Cas. "She's one of us. She's a hunter." There was more to it than that, and they both knew it. Dean's tone turned indignant as he continued. "She's been helping us out on every case we've taken since we met her, and you know what? She's great."

"I'm glad, Dean, I really am. But please--"

"Enough." Dean paused, wondering if he should say aloud the thought that was itching its way through his brain. He went for it, feeling reckless and a little bit hurt. "Besides, you're so concerned about her working with us? Where the hell have you been, then?"

Dean’s resolve faltered for a moment as he watched the hurt flash over Cas’ face at the question. But the question remained. Cas had been so adamant, so certain, that Izzy would be his and Sam’s downfall, and yet, he hadn’t been around. He hadn’t helped them. Hell, he hadn’t even called. Beyond being pissed at Cas’ lack of assistance over the past few weeks, Dean had been hurt by his absence. He’d missed him terribly.

"Trying to find you answers, Dean," Cas hissed. "Four weeks, and still nothing new on her."  
“And what, you couldn’t check in?” Dean didn’t even bother to hide his disgust now. Cas wanted to know what he was thinking and feeling all the time? Well, here it was. Be careful what you wish for, he thought sourly. “I was worried, Cas! Did you ever stop and think about that?”  
“You could have called me, too, Dean,” Cas protested softly.

“I was a little sidetracked, Cas, maybe you’ve noticed,” Dean snapped. “And besides, I did call. Your phone was off, or out of range, or something. It went right to voicemail.”

“Oh.” Cas looked defeated, all the piss sucked out of him. For a second, Dean felt bad for the guy. He knew that Cas was here out of concern for him, however misplaced that concern may be, and there he was, berating the poor guy for giving a shit, by accusing him of not giving a shit. The logic of Dean’s mind was so roundabout and ridiculous and nonexistent that it even had Dean confused. And when all was said and done, Dean really had missed him. He didn’t mean to explode at him. He made a note to himself to be nicer. Cas really did mean well. 

“Yeah, so I did try,” Dean said, more kindly. After a moment of silence, he mumbled to himself, “Seems like that’s all I ever fucking do is try.”

Another long silence stretched between them. Cas looked terribly uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his limbs. He moved one leg in a jerk, then the other, then twitched an elbow, then stopped moving altogether. For the amount of time that Cas had spent among humans, and as one himself, Dean would have thought that he’d be better at it by now. Dean, for his part, felt like he should be kicking dirt right now, since wasn’t that what you were supposed to do in these situations? He looked over at Cas, who was looking at him with an odd mix of warm fondness and fear. The warmth was something that Dean had missed.

He had caught himself wondering, on more than one occasion, if Cas wished that their friendship were…more than that. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t considered it himself from time to time. After all, life as a hunter was lonely and hard, and sometimes when you needed comfort, you had to take what you could get. That wasn’t to say that Cas was just a piece of ass to him – far from it. He was one of his closest friends, and yeah, he was attractive. He was man enough to admit that. Besides, Dean was never particularly picky in the parts department. But now, with Izzy…God, he didn’t think he’d ever have anything like her. He hadn’t even pondered the possibility, refusing to let himself get caught up in a fantasy. Shaking his head to himself, Dean chanced a glimpse through the back window of the Nova, but all he could make out through the reflection was the silhouette of Izzy’s dark hair. He sighed.

“Have you and Sam found anything else out about the Darkness?” Cas asked suddenly, probably to pull himself out of his own jumble of thoughts.

Ahh, the Darkness. The key to the lock that was the Mark of Cain. Or was it the lock to the key? Either way, two things that Dean would be perfectly happy to never think about ever again.

“Besides it being big bad cloud of nothing? No. Goose egg.” Dean realized that Cas was still staring at him a little too closely. He appreciated it, he did, but this was most definitely not the time. “And stop trying to change the subject, Cas, we both know that’s not why you’re here.”

Cas shook himself free of his daze. “I’m sorry, Dean. I know you don’t want to hear it from me anymore, but you really, really need to be careful. Izzy is…well, I don’t know. But people don’t just lose their memories for no reason. If she even is a person. We haven’t been able to determine her status there as yet.”

“You lost your memory once, Cas,” Dean pointed out helpfully. “Or did you forget?” He couldn’t help the little smirk that flashed across his face at the joke.

“I did, it’s true,” Cas said kindly. “But I’m an angel. Heaven intervened, if you recall.”

“Yeah, and a fat lot of good that did us,” Dean said with a bitter snort.

I’m just saying, until we find out something of substance—“

"Why do we have to, Cas? Really. We know who she is now. Why do we need to know who she was?" Dean was just as shocked at the words coming out of his mouth as he knew Cas was. A hunter lived and died by their vigilance. They took nothing for granted, because if they ever did, it could mean a quick and brutal end for them. Four short weeks ago, he would never have trusted some random woman with no background. He would have done his homework. He would have exhausted every lead he and Sam got from every hunter they knew. He would have read every book in every language he could get his hands on. He and Sam would have pored through every record they could find from every town in every state until they finally uncovered some answers. And they sure as hell wouldn’t have begged her to come with them as they drove around the country. He was absolutely certain of that. He wasn't sure what had changed. Wait. No. He was sure. He knew. Four weeks ago, there was no Izzy.

Cas must have read Dean's thoughts as they played through his mind. His face softened, and he looked at Dean in supplication.

"Just be careful, Dean."

"Yeah, Cas. I will." Dean was done with this conversation, even if Cas wasn't. He turned away from his desperate friend and walked determinedly back to the passenger door of the Nova. He glanced in the rearview mirror as he closed the door, and saw the angel vanish, trench coat swirling around him. He turned his gaze straight ahead and let out a loud breath.

"Dean?" Izzy turned to face him, placing her hand carefully on his shoulder. "Are you ok? Is Cas ok?" She hadn't gotten to know the angel as well as she had the brothers, having only met him the first day she met the Winchesters. Everything she knew about him was gleaned second-hand from Sam and Dean’s stories. The Cas they described was awkward and alien, still adjusting to life on Earth and still learning, every day. The Cas they described was genuine and kind, if a bit misguided at times, but ultimately good. Izzy wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t gotten the chance to really get to know him, or if they were seeing two different people, but she didn’t get that sense of the angel at all. In fact, she found him cold, standoffish, almost a little hostile, though subtly so. She wasn't sure what to make of him.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," Dean replied too quickly, still glaring straight ahead.

"Nope. No it's not. Talk to me." Izzy turned to face Dean squarely, turning nearly completely around in her seat and leaning her back against the steering wheel.

Dean took a deep breath, his eyebrows furrowed in thought, and finally turned to face her. "It's nothing, Iz. I swear." He forced his face to soften, relaxing each muscle one by one until he was certain he resembled Cletus The Slack-Jawed Yokel. He attempted a smile to compensate, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You know, you might be able to pull this shit with Sam, but not with me," Izzy said. Her voice was quiet, but the edge of anger in her voice was unmistakable. Dean was shocked. He figured that he wouldn’t be able to get one past her, but the last thing in the world he was expecting was for her to call him out on it. He struggled to compose himself as she continued. "I know something's wrong. Cas said something to piss you off. I could see it in your face when you were talking to him." 

So she saw the whole thing, Dean thought to himself. Fuck. So much for lying. Not that he was planning to, necessarily, but he figured it was easier than the truth. He figured he’d play it by ear and see how it went. Now, he had no choice. He had to say something.

"So, what was it? And why won't you tell me?" Izzy pressed him. She cocked an eyebrow and waited.

Dean considered his options for a moment. If he told Izzy about Cas' concerns, he could end up jeopardizing the good thing they had going. But if he didn't tell her, it might seem like he almost agreed with Cas, and that could end up jeopardizing the good thing they had going. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. And he knew it. Fuck, he thought again.

"He's worried," Dean began with some difficulty. "About me."

Izzy looked at him with confusion and concern, not sure what to say.

"…being with you," he finished quietly, punctuating the statement with a painful swallow.

"Oh," Izzy breathed. It was the only thing she could think to say. Her face crumbled. She knew that Dean respected Castiel a great deal. They were close, possibly closer than she and Dean were, and she knew that Cas had a great deal of influence over Dean. If disapproved of his and Izzy’s budding relationship, whatever it was, it could end it before it even got a chance to really start. 

"He says that you're going to hurt me, that you'll 'cause me pain,'" Dean murmured as his face fell to match Izzy’s. May as well get it all out in the open, right?

At this, Izzy turned to Dean with wide eyes, her mouth agape. "Hurt you?" The shock was plain in her voice. "Dean, listen. I know that in so many ways, we're still strangers to each other. There are a lot of things that we don’t know about each other – shit, there are a lot of things I don’t know about myself…but one thing I know--" she took Dean's face in his hands, forced him to look right into her eyes, slowly filling up with fat, wet tears-- "is that I would never hurt you." She kissed him gently, still holding his face steady, then slowly pulled away. A sudden resolve pumped hot through her veins. "I would never. I've never been more sure of anything."

Dean grasped her wrists gently, still looking directly into her eyes. He managed a small smile. "I know." He released her wrists and shifted his hands to her face. His gaze dropped to her lips, her lips that had just spoken the words that he most needed to hear. He couldn't bear it any longer. He bent his mouth to hers, desperate for the brush of her lips against his, silk against sand; for the sweetness of her tongue in his mouth, the beautiful silence when they lost themselves in each other. He pulled her close, his hands eager on the leather of her jacket. Izzy shifted, determined to get closer. The driver's seat could wait. She twisted herself to the passenger side, swinging one leg over Dean's lap, until she sat squarely on his lap, pressed tight against him. She could feel a hard bulge developing in Dean’s jeans, and heard his breath growing louder, deeper. A chill trickled down her spine. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted him. 

Izzy slid her head slightly to the side and crept her lips away from Dean's, eventually finding his neck, hot and throbbing as his pulse quickened. Her fingers combed through his hair, guiding his head out of the way of her caresses. She slicked her tongue lightly across his skin, and thrilled as she felt him shudder from the touch. She had never known hunger like this before. She licked and sucked at his neck thirstily, guttural moans escaping from Dean's mouth. As a strange warmth built between her legs, Lizzy felt a sudden urge to be even closer to Dean, to feel him inside her, to hold him within her forever. She needed him. And he needed her. It was unmistakable.

"We need our own room," Dean breathed as his hands gripped her ass to pull her ever closer. Izzy wasn't sure how much closer they could get; she was fairly certain a hair couldn't fit between them then. Dean wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. He leaned forward until his mouth found hers again, his lips crushing into hers. Then, at last, with a tortured sigh, he leaned back into his seat and allowed some distance between them. His expression was tortured. Izzy could tell that something was weighing on Dean's mind, and she was pretty sure that the something was her. Still straddling Dean's legs, she leaned back toward the dashboard and stared at him, gripping his hands tightly in hers.

"I'll never hurt you, Dean," she repeated firmly. Dean held her gaze, warmth in his eyes, for what seemed like forever.

"I never even considered it," Dean finally replied, softly. It was a lie, and he knew it, but one that he would examine later. He allowed himself one last kiss before gently lifting Izzy off of him and sliding over to the driver's side. He turned the key and the Nova rumbled to life.

Izzy was relieved. She didn't think she could drive now if her life depended on it; her whole body was trembling. She forced herself to be still, even as her thoughts drifted back to the feeling of Dean's hands on her, to the taste of his neck, salty and warm, as she kissed it.

They sat in silence for a bit as Dean drove. He seemed to be in less of a rush this morning than usual, Izzy noticed. He stared, fixated, at the road in front of them, his face thoughtful, as he steered along the meandering roads toward whatever breakfast place he had chosen that day.

Try as he might, Dean couldn't shake the nagging feeling that maybe Cas was right. He didn't want to admit it, but there was always the chance. After all, when had Cas really steered him wrong? Sure, he had made mistakes in the past -- his decision to dub himself the new God sprang immediately to mind -- but in the end, Cas had always looked out for him, at least as much as he was able to. Maybe he knew something Dean didn't. Maybe, somehow, in some parallel universe or some angel-fueled hallucination, he had seen their future, and it ended badly. Maybe, just maybe, Izzy could destroy him. She was strong. And she was fast -- maybe even faster than Dean was. And absolutely deadly. Dean could certainly testify to the last thing. He'd seen it time and time again. All of those were purely physical, though. She was absolutely capable of putting an end to his life. But emotionally? He wasn’t so sure.

It always sIeemed like Izzy was the first one to jump to both Sam and Dean's defense when the chips were down and things were going awry. Honestly, that was as much about protecting them emotionally as it was physically, wasn’t it? She didn’t want any of them to lose each other. She wanted to spare them from the pain. Why, then, would she ever hurt either one of them? It didn’t make sense.

The way more likely scenario was that Dean would hurt her. As much as he detested the thought of Cas being right about Izzy, the thought that he could hurt her was worse. Causing pain to their loved ones was a time-honored tradition for the Winchesters. There was their mom, their dad, who had taught them damn near everything they knew about hunting. Ellen. Jo. Bobby. All of them hunters. All of them perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, just like Izzy. All of them gone. All of them dead. All of them hurt. By him.

It was only a matter of time, Dean realized. One of them would inevitably hurt the other. Wasn't that the way it always worked?

The silence had gone on for too long. Dean struggled for something to say, but came up short. The thoughts swirled in his head, growing more and more chaotic by the second. Finally, they threatened to overflow. Dean didn't try and stop them. They just kept building up, piling one on top of another, spilling over one another until they nearly exploded from his mouth. Another terrible thought, long buried, worked its way to the top of the pile, fighting and screaming for his attention like it always did. It was one of his greatest fears. It was time to face it.

"I feel like I'm taking advantage of you," he admitted after another long moment.

"What? How?" Izzy looked at him with a perplexed expression.

"Izzy, you barely know who you are," he sighed, suddenly very tired. "You wouldn't have even known your name if it wasn't written on your damned ID."

"I know who I am," she said sharply.

"Yeah? And who is that?" Dean's voice practically dripped with skepticism. "Please, tell me."

"I'm a hunter. Same as you. I've either been doing this forever or I'm a damn fast learner, but it feels natural. My name must be Izzy, since my ID says so and the picture looks like me. But you know what? The only thing I really need to know is that I'm here, with you, and I feel…alive. It feels right. I know who I am, Dean. I’m yours." She crossed her arms across her chest, the period at the end of a sentence.

"It doesn't bother you?" Dean asked after a beat. His face was carefully controlled, but Izzy could see the warmth creeping in behind his eyes.

"What?"

"Not knowing?" He turned to look at her, his expression indiscernible.

“Didn’t I just say—“

“Stop,” Dean interrupted, though not unkindly. “You know what I mean.”

"What, my past? Why would it?" She laughed. Dean shrugged, his expression still carefully neutral.  
"If it were worth remembering I'm sure I would have by now. I remember the lyrics to half the songs on the radio, right? The good ones, anyway. Because the bad ones aren't worth remembering."

Dean mulled that over for a second. He wished he could forget some of the less savory moments in his life, too. Sure, one could argue that they had made him who he was, but come on. Forgetting Hell would be nice. He had to admit that Izzy made a good point.

"I'd rather focus on the now," Izzy said slowly, "than worry about what happened then. I'm here now. May as well make the best of it."

Dean nodded. What she was saying, he got it. He understood. He was fairly certain that Izzy was too young to be so wise, but figured that whatever her past had held, it must have been something. She'd seen some shit. He was sure of it.

"Sometimes the past isn't so bad to think about, though," Izzy mused to herself, interrupting Dean's train of thought. "When I met you that day, weeks ago. And when Sam left to get the car…" Her voice trailed off as she recalled the events of that day. She lowered her eyes, afraid to meet Dean’s as she felt her face growing redder with each passing second.

"The vamp," Dean offered, remembering.

"And after…" Izzy's voice was barely a whisper as the memories came flooding back.

Their eyes finally met. Dean could tell that they were both replaying that first kiss in their heads, and all the small moments – the lingering touches, the tender glances, the slightly-too-long-to-be-platonic hugs – that they had shared since. He thought of their encounter in that very car not ten minutes before. As he pulled into the lot at Jose's Burrito Shack, Dean let out a breath, harsh and hot.

"We're getting our own room," he resolved.

**Author's Note:**

> As Chuck says, "Writing is hard!" So this fic is taking a hell of a lot longer to finish than I had originally hoped or anticipated. Bear with me - stories are living things, but sometimes they decide to go into hibernation on you and you have to wait for them to wake up. After certain scenes started to replay themselves through my head at work (awkward), I figured it was about time to revisit my baby. Hopefully you enjoy!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter and witness my fangirl breakdowns every Wednesday when SPN airs: @BornADragonfly
> 
> and read my WAAAAAAAAAAYYYY too long and convoluted episode recaps on Tumblr: SamIsMySpiritAnimal
> 
> Leave me comments and feedback! This is your baby, too :) Also, feel free to add tags as you see fit (I'm pretty sure I left that enabled).


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